Tales From The International Champions Cup

Posted on August 6, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fiorentina : 6 August 2015.

This was a strange evening and a strange game.

In the current climate, a home friendly is a pretty rare occurrence anyway. With our predilection for foreign climes and summer tours, a warm-up match at Stamford Bridge has been a very rare event over the past decade or so. I didn’t bother with last season’s game with Real Sociedad and, if I am honest, the only reason that I decided to attend the game with Fiorentina was because I had attended our other three “International Champions Cup” games in the US. I set off from work, alone, at 3.30pm to complete the set.

My main concern for the evening was the probable traffic chaos in London likely to be caused by the planned one-day tube strike. I sped as quickly as I could along the M4. At Reading Services, I spotted a father and daughter in Chelsea blue.

“Thought I was the only one daft enough to go tonight.”

“Should be a good game.”

Ah, the game. I hadn’t thought much about it until then.

This would be our first ever match with the viola of Florence. My very first encounter with them was on a muggy Sunday afternoon in late May 1989, when I watched a dull 1-1 draw between Juventus and Fiorentina in the home end at Stadio Communale. Apart from my first-ever sighting of Roberto Baggio – the eventual transfer of him between the two clubs would heighten animosities which exist until this day – my main recollection from that balmy Italian afternoon took place with around fifteen minutes of the game remaining.

Around 1,500 Fiorentina paninari – Timberland boots, Best Company T-shirts, Armani jeans, Burlington socks, Invicta backpacks, Schott bomber jackets, sunglasses, attitude – got a signal from their leaders, or maybe a phone call from their Juve counterparts, and quickly packed up their banners in the away end and left the terraces en masse, intent on disturbing the peace of an Italian summer on their way back to the city’s train station.

Ten years later, I was in Turin again, when Juventus boasted Zinedine Zidane and Thierry Henry in their team, and watched as Antonio Conte scored a very late winner against Fiorentina. He famously went down in Juve folklore that afternoon by sprinting over to the visiting Viola fans and taunting them with a black and white corner flag.

As a Juve sympathiser, there was a frisson of excitement about seeing them again sixteen years later.

As expected, I did hit some slow-moving traffic, but further out than expected. Ironically, the last section into London stayed relatively clear. At 6.15pm, I was inside The Goose, but in the strangest of circumstances. Nursing my first SW6 pint of Peroni of the season, I soon realised that there was not one single person in the pub that I recognised. I felt like I was in a parallel universe. This was going to be a strange one alright.

Thankfully, a few friends soon arrived.

Mick mentioned that he might have to leave just after half-time because of the expected ninety minute wait at the two closest mainline stations. For once, I was glad that I was driving and the master of my own destiny. The Bristol Four soon arrived and we chatted about the pre-season. We briefly spoke about Kenedy, the Brazilian lad who appeared in our team against Barcelona in Maryland. We all agreed that we could not remember the last time that a “trialist” ever appeared in our team. It’s an odd one. Like something from the amateur days of the pre-war years.

Although I was not too bothered about seeing the introduction of the first team squad to the spectators at 7pm – a full hour before kick-off – I wanted to have a leisurely stroll down the North End Road and Fulham Road. I soon noticed US-style pennants hanging from street-lights celebrating our Championship of last season, with torso shots of all of our players looking all mean and moody, and intent on repeating in 2015/2016.

I approved. It added a little to the streetscape around Stamford Bridge.

It was difficult for me to judge the size of the crowd. I didn’t expect a sell-out, especially in lieu of the London Underground strike. The place seemed busy enough. I didn’t spot any Fiorentina fans outside the stadium. I had decided to purchase a ticket in the East Upper for a change. What with the chances of the modern Stamford Bridge being demolished within the next few seasons, it might turn out to be one of my last visits. I promised myself to take more than my usual share of photographs. A different angle, a different perspective, lovely.

I had a great position in the towering East Stand, in row seven towards The Shed. The place was filling up nicely. Flags had been positioned by each seat. It was soon obvious that there were many more youngsters in attendance than usual. By all accounts the pre-game introductions were a little over the top with their US-style razzmatazz. What next? Players being parachuted in from the skies above next season?

As kick-off approached, the area around myself was full. There were chattering kids behind me, plus many more within sight. The next generation was well represented and it was good to see.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. I like the fact that each of the four stands are slightly different, with idiosyncrasies, yet there is a common design to all. I am stirred that the new stadium designs echo these slight variances. The usual banners were out, though I noticed a few – Captain, Leader, Legend for example – looking rather faded and forlorn.

Our team contained several surprises.

Begovic – Aina, Zouma, Terry, Traore – Mikel, Loftus-Cheek – Cuadrado, Oscar, Moses – Falcao.

It would be home debuts for four.

I am sure that Ola Aina is in for a fine future at the club, but my main worry is that his name contains too many vowels for a defender.

“Too exotic son. See if you can get yourself some consonants. Work on that and you’ll be fine.”

Am I the only one who thinks our home shirts and shorts are – nicely – a deeper and darker shade of royal blue this season? They are certainly darker than the mid-blue of 2012-2013. Fiorentina, sadly but not surprisingly, showed up in white / white / violet.

Asmir Begovic did well to get down low within the first minute to save a rasping shot from distance after a simple passing move cut into our defence. We then enjoyed long spells of possession and our best twenty-five minutes of the evening. With the sun setting in the north-west corner, lighting up the sky nicely, I was settling down and enjoying this. Victor Moses, one of the stars in the United States, was again showing real promise in his determination and desire. Ruben Loftus-Cheek was impressing with his finesse and strength. We were playing some nice stuff. We were treated to a lovely Rabona from Oscar on the goal-line to my left.

I commented to the young couple to my right “I can do that after seven pints.”

I detected a foreign accent in the chap’s confused response, so I then decided to talk my way through the game with the Shed season ticket holder to my left. We had a good old natter throughout the match.

Mikel had been doing the simple stuff well, but then caused much merriment with an effort on goal which more resembled a defensive tackle.

Fiorentina then gradually took hold of the game. They kept the ball well and our play deteriorated alarmingly. On the half hour, a long raking drive smashed against Begovic’ crossbar. We had been warned. Soon after, Begovic saved well but could not smother the ball leaving an easy tap-in for Rodriguez.

The Fiorentina manager – ex-Juventus player and ex- QPR manager Paulo Sousa – was watching down below from the technical area and was increasingly pleased with his team’s performance. The little knot of away fans, no more than 150 in the bottom corner of The Shed, roared with approval too. They were, surely, mainly ex-pats. There was one “Viola Club Stockport” flag.

Fiorentina gained control and we struggled. The game went flat.

The noise, hardly tumultuous, reduced too.

At the interval, the Chelsea Women – in coats, they must have been feeling the cold – were introduced by Neil Barnett with the recently-won FA Cup.

Mourinho changed the personnel at the break, with Azpilicueta, Cahill and Ivanovic joining Zouma in defence. Matic replaced Mikel. The impressive Moses was sadly replaced by Ramires after the second of two knocks.

In truth, the second-half resembled the second-half at Wembley on Sunday; we enjoyed the majority of the ball, but found it difficult to break the opposition down. The frustration was starting to seep down to the players from the stands. Ivanovic seemed to be, again, a main source of our attacks, but again annoyed me with his final ball. As the game progressed I saw him getting increasingly annoyed with things. On one occasion he turned to the bench and had a proper rant, his face clearly contorted with rage about something or other.

“He had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle” as the saying goes.

The comparison with the cool and calm and seldom-flustered Azpilicueta on the other flank could not be more dramatic.

Jose Mourinho, too, seemed to be increasingly annoyed. There were wholesale changes from both teams on the hour mark – on came Willian, Hazard, Fabregas and Remy – and Mourinho took dislike to the amount of time that Sousa orchestrated a similar amount of team changes too. It turned out to be the longest break for substitutes I can remember.

Joaquin, a visitor to Stamford Bridge with both Real Betis and Valencia in previous years, appeared among the viola substitutes. It was one name that I recognised.

“What do you mean Giancarlo Antognoni doesn’t play for them anymore?”

With more established quality in our ranks, surely a goal – and the inevitable win on penalties – would come now. Chelsea controlled possession but seemed to take forever to get going, and I lost count of the number of times the ball was passed laterally. We did improve when Willian, Hazard and Fabregas linked on a few occasions, but chances were rare. A Gary Cahill header from a Fabregas free-kick went close, and we all wondered how Remy, on for the quiet Falcao, managed to shoot wide from close range.

A rather agricultural – no, bloody clumsy – challenge from Kurt Zouma on a poor Fiorentina player – caused much merriment in the seats around me. It was, quite simply, one of the ugliest tackles that I have seen for a while.

The atmosphere, roused at times, was pretty quiet now, and parents with young families began to leave early on their long and tedious journeys home. I had commented to the Shed Ender to my left that I was impressed with the attendance. It looked to be at the 35,000 mark. Imagine my surprise when a full house of 41,435 was announced. Again, even for a friendly game, tickets sold rather than spectators in seats is used. It’s an odd one. Undoubtedly, there were empty seats around the ground too. Even so, on a night of massive travel disruption, this was a great attendance.

Despite five minutes of extra time, no equaliser was forthcoming.

“We could have played until March and not scored.”

The Shed Ender agreed.

“Sorry for the cliché, but as so often happens in these pre-season games, there are more questions than answers.”

He agreed again.

“My biggest worry is that all three of our strikers might be a knock away from being side-lined for weeks.”

I was a little subdued on my slow exit from a warm and sultry Stamford Bridge. And although I wasn’t – honestly – reading too much in to our rather lacklustre performance against a well-drilled Fiorentina team, I knew full well that out there in cyberspace, thousands of virtual Chelsea fans were throwing themselves off the nearest bridge, building or balcony as we endured another pre-season loss.

How these people would have coped in 1975, 1979 or 1988 beggars belief.

I wanted to get home as quickly as I could. Sadly, the journey home turned into one of farce as the roadworks on the A303 meant that I was severely re-routed, almost as far as Southampton damn it, and didn’t get home until 1.30am. Others, living in London, were still catching one final night bus.

A strange evening indeed.

Tales From The Red Seats

Posted on August 4, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 2 August 2015.

What is the old saying?

“Familiarity breeds contempt.”

For the Football Association’s season opener this certainly seems to be the case. Long gone are the days when a trip to Wembley Stadium elicited a warm glow for myself and thousands like me. We are, as another old saying goes, a victim of our success. This would be Chelsea’s ninth such game – Charity Shield, then Community Shield – since 1997, and our eleventh in total. The 1955 game (beating Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge in front of just 12,802) is hardly ever spoken about. The 1970 game (losing to Everton at home, with a gate of 43,547, and Stamford Bridge never looking more sun-kissed) is on the outer reaches of modern Chelsea fans’ awareness. From 1997 though, our appearance in this game – first as F.A. Cup winners and then, get used to it world, as league champions – has been a regular event.

However, as of 2015, it is the one game every season that is starting to pall.

With the summer trip to the United States behind me, and with the league opener against Swansea City not far away, I was trying my hardest to get “up” for our Community Shield game against Arsenal. Of course it would be great to see a few Chelsea mates for the first time of the summer, but as for the game itself, I was struggling. There seemed to be a common understanding among fellow fans that a game against local rivals would add a little excitement to the game. There was talk of a “mark” being set for the season. There was also to be the strange sight of Petr Cech in Arsenal colours. Despite all of this, I was still having difficulties.

It was almost as if I was travelling to Wembley under some sort of strange sense of duty, which sounds rather pompous and silly. But, by the same token, there was no chance of me ever missing it.

“You’ve got me Chelsea, you’ve got me.”

I collected His Lordship at 9.30am. The domestic season was up and running.

On the drive to London, I chatted to Parky about the summer tour, which was over way too quickly, but left me with many lovely memories. Funnily enough, despite the joy of meeting up with a host of old and new Chelsea friends and the three games themselves, I think that the resounding memory for me is the time that I spent on The Great American Road. In my twelve days away, I covered 1,962 miles in my hire car, and the vast majority came in that massive “V” which I cut into the heart of America, travelling from New York City down to Charlotte in one trip and then from Charlotte back up to Washington DC the next. There were journey times of eleven hours and of eight hours respectively, with memories from each to last until the cold winter months and beyond. There was even one song – “Uma Thurman” by Fall Out Boy – which will forever be synonymous with my US trip of 2015, since I could not escape it, no matter what radio station I found. The summer tour also had other totems. The tour beers were “Shock Top”, “Rolling Rock”, “Blue Moon”, “Yuengling” and “Corona.”

From a football perspective, the theme was “penalties.”

And Bobby Tambling.

Good times, good times.

As we rose steadily on the elevated section of the M4, I glanced north and spotted the Wembley arch, clearly visible and with the late morning sun picking it out perfectly against the blue North London sky. We were soon parked at Barons Court. At about 12.30pm we met up with Alan, Gary, John and Dave at The Tyburn near Marble Arch. The last time that I was in this pub, and my last visit to Wembley in March, I was in my own little world of sadness.

As I sipped on a pint of San Miguel, I genuinely felt that a new season would help me move on from the grief which took over the closing months of 2014-2015.

Alan and Gary left for the game at about 1.45pm. Dave, Parky and myself stayed on for – you have guessed it – “one last beer.” We then had to hotfoot it to Marylebone to catch the 2.28pm train. It would be a fight to make kick-off. We never learn, do we? We bumped into the rumbustious crew from Trowbridge and Westbury on the fifteen minute train journey – “Parky!” – and it was great to see them again. To be honest, they would be the only familiar faces that we would see all afternoon. Maybe others were finding it hard to get “up” for this game too.

Inside the stadium concourse, I spotted Alan and Gary behind me.

“Got waylaid, son.”

We reached our seats just as the game kicked-off.

Phew.

We had super seats; row four of the upper tier, on the Royal Box side, midway inside the “Chelsea half.”

With people still lining up for beers in the area outside, the stadium was not remotely full at the start. However, after ten minutes, things were looking better and seats were filling up. It was obvious, though, that there were more empty red seats in our western end than in the Arsenal end. It was also noticeable that the Arsenal supporters in the lower tier were standing, whereas Chelsea were sitting. As an indicator of which set of fans were more “up” for the game, Chelsea were coming in a poor second.

I sighed.

The team contained few surprises, but we guessed that Costa was being protected in light of his recent injury scare in Maryland. Loic Remy deputised

It was immediately disconcerting to see Petr Cech in the monstrosity of an Arsenal kit.

Wembley Stadium was bathed in sunlight, with its huge and cumbersome roof supports causing strong shadows. It is a huge stadium, but I am still finding it a difficult stadium to admire. I still can’t believe that such a complex array of under structure does not support a sliding roof. It is a little ironic that the designing and building process for the new stadium – which took seven long years to be completed – was headed from 1997 to 2001 by none other than Ken Bates. That Chelsea Football Club might be moving in to Wembley for three years while Bates’ “Chelsea Village” is razed to the ground is doubly ironic.

There were few Chelsea banners on show.

One Arsenal banner caught my eye. The standard “Believe” had a yellow ribbon tied around the “I” which alludes to their bespoke F.A. Cup Final song. Quite clever.

I thought Chelsea began reasonably well, but then played second fiddle to a more energised and incisive Arsenal team for most of the first-half. I looked over at the Arsenal team which flashed up on the scoreboard. I must have reached that part of my Chelsea Life-Cycle which results in me being increasingly indifferent to players on opposing teams. In an identity parade, I would be hard-pressed to name Monreal, Bellerin and Coquelin.

It’s all about Chowlsea these days.

As I watched play develop before me, with Walcott finding Oxlade-Chamberlain, there was a clear moment when Dave saw enough of the ball to make a clearing tackle. That crucial moment passed and the Arsenal player struck an unstoppable riser past Courtois into the net. The Arsenal thousands roared, while we sat silently.

Until that point, it had been a relatively quiet affair of the pitch. While Arsenal made some noise, Chelsea retorted :

“Stand Up For The Champions.”

We did our best to get the singing going, but our section was unsurprisingly docile.

It was typical that while we clapped and applauded Petr Cech – though not ridiculously so – Cesc Fabregas was booed by his former Arsenal family every time he touched the ball.

Pathetic, really.

We found it difficult to get our game going in the first-half. To be fair, Willian was our main threat, moving well and more inclined to attack directly than in the past. I lost count of the times Ivanovic failed to deliver a cross by hitting the outstretched leg of his full back.

Two chances fell to Ramires. A shot went narrowly wide, but then a more glaring error. With the goal at his mercy, he headed over from a Remy cross. To be truthful, the ball was slightly too high for him. Or maybe he jumped too soon. It was a clear chance though. Elsewhere we struggled. A goal-line clearance from Ivanovic, with archetypal Goon Mertesacker breathing down his neck, stopped a second goal.

We hoped for a masterful Mourinho tongue-lashing at the break. He replaced Loic Remy with Radamel Falcao. We hoped for good things. Oscar soon replaced Ramires, and I immediately noted a bigger desire from him to attack the defensive lines. On a couple of occasions, he drifted inside and past his markers with ease. More of the same this season please.

On the hour, a second glaring miss of the match. Fabregas played in Eden Hazard, our player of the moment, and we fully expected him to rifle a shot low past Cech. Instead, his shot immediately rose high and flew over the crossbar. Such a rare piece of shoddy finishing from Eden shocked us all.

Fackinell.

A free-kick from Oscar – one of many which we were awarded in the final quarter – forced a save from Cech in the Arsenal goal. It probably looked more difficult than it was. The Arsenal thousands roared.

Kurt Zouma replaced Dave at left-back. That surprised me. On the other flank, Ivanovic was continuing to flounder.

As the game progressed, we never really looked like equalising. The atmosphere was deadening, though few Chelsea fans had decided to leave, which was a good sign.

Victor Moses replaced Terry, and Mourinho re-jigged things. Moses’ pace was not utilised and the equaliser proved elusive. Falcao had chased a few scraps, but his service was not great.

In the closing minutes, Arsenal had a couple of chances to increase their lead.

To be truthful, it hadn’t been a very entertaining match. We had looked a little sluggish, with our key players unable to match the creativity in key areas shown by Arsenal. At the final whistle, the Arsenal fans feverishly waved their red and white flags as if they had won a cup final.

Yes, I know, I sound bitter don’t I?

I was well aware that this reaction would be typical of the Chelsea supporters.

A win, and an important marker for the season ahead in a vital showcase game.

A loss, and an irrelevant result in little more than a friendly.

At the queue for the train back to Marylebone, there was a little chat among a few of us about the possibility of Chelsea using Wembley as a temporary home for several seasons should our planning application for the complete overhaul of our stadium be accepted. For some, Wembley would be a preferred option. For me, coming to London from the south-west, I think I would prefer to use Twickenham. Wembley, in my opinion, should not be used for club games, though you can be very sure that the Football Association would readily accept Roman’s millions for three seasons. It would also, perhaps forever, take away what remaining buzz of excitement that I get from visiting Wembley with Chelsea, if we were to play eighty games there in three years. There are also logistical problems getting in and out of central London. It would extend my day by an extra hour at least. The atmosphere isn’t great at Wembley. How would it cope with 50,000 Chelsea fans? I am not sure. Would we be able to get it jumping? It would be tough.

There is also the painful sight of Chelsea playing home games in a stadium of 90,000 red seats.

Ken – could you not have chosen a more neutral colour?

Royal blue, maybe?

To be fair, despite my moans about added travel time, we were back at Barons Court by 6.30pm.

On the way home, I glanced north once more. The Wembley arch was only just visible now, barely distinguishable against the early evening cloud.

Tales From Tinsel Town

Posted on May 29, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 24 May 2015.

This was it, then. The last game of the season. To be truthful, it was a game in name only. With the league already won, the day was all about one particular moment which would happen at around 5.15pm.

The sun glinting off the Premier League trophy as John Terry lifts it high above his shoulders.

In fact, there was a part of me that wanted to fast forward through the actual match in order to just reach that point. Sure, there would be friends to meet and memories of the season to share along the way, but I just wanted to see the trophy back in SW6.

Best not to wish my time away though. Surely it would be best to relax and enjoy the day as it unfolded before me. That was the plan.

However, it was perhaps inevitable in this most difficult of seasons for myself, what with the recent loss of my mother overshadowing almost everything, that even this most potentially joyous of all days should be tinged with sadness.

On Wednesday, we sadly learned that one of the Bristol group, Clive, had sadly passed away. Although Clive was not in my immediate circle of close Chelsea friends, he was one of the many acquaintances that I have enjoyed talking to over the years, whether it was in The Goose or at any home or away game. That Clive lived in Bristol, relatively close to me in the West Country, meant that there was an empathy with him. He was a fine man, a very loyal Chelsea supporter and, for the want of a better phrase, one of the undoubted “good guys.” He has featured in these tales over the years as one of the un-named members of “the Bristol boys” and, to be honest, his unexpected passing hit me for six. Although the Chelsea family has lost a few well known supporters of late, Clive was the only one that I can honestly say that I knew. That he passed away on 19 May is an irony that was not lost on any of his close Chelsea friends. In the packed beer garden of “The Goose”, I had a quiet few words – a difficult few words – with Clive’s sons Kelvin and Rich. We raised a glass to their father and to my mother.

I had travelled up from the West Country for the final league game of the season with Southern Parky and Northern Dean. At the Chelsea hotel, The Copthorne, we had joined forces with a few good friends from the United States – Kathryn and Tim from DC, Tom from Los Angeles – and had met a first time visitor to Stamford Bridge, Jim, also from the DC area, too. Jim was over with his son CJ, and was supremely happy that I had managed to sort out a spare match ticket for him. On the way to “The Goose” we had stopped off at a ridiculously quiet “Malt House” for a pint and a chat about all things Chelsea. In “The Goose” the atmosphere was predictably boisterous. The beer garden was rammed. Burger, Julie and Andy, veterans of many a Chelsea US tour, joined the celebrations. It was lovely.

The sun was shining and the championship was ours.

The beer tasted even better than usual. It was perfect, just perfect.

Sadly, we left the pub just a little too late for my liking. There was a typical melee at the turnstiles and I sadly missed the pre game presentation to the crowd of several members of the 2004/2005 championship squad. Alan, who was in early, was able to tell me that even William Gallas, probably the only ex-Chelsea player of recent memory who has received a tough time during his subsequent outings against us, was on show.

I was absolutely elated to see Tom alongside Alan. Tom is in his late ‘seventies and his health has not been too good of late. His presence was one of the high points of the day.

I noted that everyone had been given blue card mosaics and a royal blue flag to hold and wave before the teams had entered the pitch. Sadly, that infamous Chelsea tradition of “one last pint” had backfired further. I had missed all of that too.

Balls.

And so to the game.

Ah, the game. Yet again, all of the various pre match chats had managed to avoid the game itself. The first big surprise was that Eden Hazard, rumoured to be out due to the lingering side-effects of a dental operation, was playing. We had learned that this would be Didier Drogba’s last ever game for us and he was playing from the start. Also in was Petr Cech; would this be his last game, too? The back line in front of Big Pete was the standard four of 2014/2015, but Jose Mourinho chose Jon Obi Mikel – maybe his last game too? – alongside Nemanja Matic. The attacking three were Hazard, Willian and Cuadrado.

The traditionalist in me was just happy that the men in suits had not decided for our players to jettison the current playing kit for next season’s. It is always a pet peeve of mine. Dare I mention Moscow?

With the Chelsea support in fine form, I soon texted Jim from DC to see how he was doing.

“I’m in heaven.”

With the sun shining – perfect “Chelsea weather” – we began well and Drogba almost touched home a low Cuadrado cross at the near post. The crowd were vibrant and the party was on.

“We want you to staaaaaay. Petr Cech, we want you to stay.”

Two pieces of action involved our rampaging full-back / winger / battering ram Ivanovic. Firstly he tumbled in the box after a challenge but a penalty was not given and then, with a shot mirroring a similar effort against a recent opponent at home, a blistering drive from distance.

Sadly, despite having the majority of the ball, we conceded on twenty-six minutes. A corner was played in to the box and the ball’s path seemed to confuse and bewilder our entire defence. The ball bounced up, just missing John Terry’s desperate attempt to intercept, allowing Stephen Fletcher to nod the ball down and in past Cech. To say we were stunned would be an understatement. The Mackems in the opposite corner, relatively quiet until that point, roared after a tantalising split second of silence; I suspected that they could not believe it either.

Bollocks.

Next, came a moment of pure theatre. Mourinho signalled for Diego Costa to replace Didier Drogba. The crowd began applauding our hero of Munich – and of course of many other moments too – but then we became aware of something strange. We saw Cech race out of his box and join the rest of his team mates in hoisting Didier up and carrying him, in a blue-shirted chariot, off the pitch. None of us had witnessed anything like this before. It was partly corny, partly magnificent. Didier turned, waved a palm to the stands, then took off his shirt once his chariot ride had finished. An embrace with Diego and Jose and his Chelsea career was over. I am still in two minds about his return to us, but here was a send off fit for a king. I have pictures of his last seconds as a Chelsea player on the Stamford Bridge pitch in 2012.

The pictures from 2015 seem more appropriate.

“Thanks Didier. You take care mate.”

Just after, Cuadrado tempted John O’Shea to lunge as he offered the ball as a prize. The lunge was ill-timed and the referee Lee Mason was left with no option. A penalty.

Diego Costa calmly stroked the ball in.

Unlike in 2005/2006 when our league campaign, after the title-clincher versus Manchester United, ended with two limp defeats, I was convinced that the 0-3 reverse at The Hawthorns would not be followed with another defeat here. We had, after all, another undefeated home record to defend. And there have been a few.

Sadly Cuadrado, enjoying his best game for us – “not hard” I hear you say – was injured and replaced by Loic Remy just before the break.

At the break, there was an air of disbelief around me when we heard that Stoke City were pummelling Liverpool 5-0. Oh dear, Stephen Gerrard, what a shame, never mind.

We began the second half well, with Remy looking interested. A rare shot from Gary Cahill took us all by surprise. Willian went close too. Then, forty yards out, Hazard turned on a sixpence and ran in that unfettered way of his at Larsson. He gained a few yards and then played in Remy. The ball was moved sideways, then struck firmly. The shot was not particularly hard, but there was enough on it to evade Vito Mannone. I caught this third goal of the game on film too. The crowd roared again.

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

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”

With a win now looking more likely, the crowd toasted Chelsea legends past and present. There was also a wave from the bashful owner in the middle tiers of the West Stand.

We heard that Newcastle United had managed to win and so their presence in the top flight would be assured for another season. Newcastle fans have their detractors ( I wonder what they make of Alan Pardew’s fine spell at Crystal Palace) but the Premier League is not the same without them.

Andreas Christensen replaced Mikel. We were coasting now and a bright line of stewards began to line the pitch as the seconds ticked away. We sealed the win when Remy appeared unmarked at the near post to delicately touch home a low cross from Matic. Another goal – the last of the season – on film, captured for posterity.

At the final whistle, hugs from the players.

Another win.

Job done.

The players returned to the sanctuary of the dressing rooms, and we waited. It seemed to take an eternity to construct the special stage on which the trophy was to be presented. Lucky me; not only would this be at our end of the stadium, unlike in 2005, but the players would be facing my way too. My memory card was full, so I spent a few moments deleting some unworthy photographs.

A fair proportion of the Sunderland fans, to their credit, stayed on to watch the post-game pageantry. With their safety assured only within the past week, perhaps they looked on and took some sort of vicarious pleasure in our superbly choreographed celebrations. In the very first few moments of the match, the away supporters in the lower tier had tossed around – if that is the correct phrase in the circumstances – an inflatable penis. I couldn’t tell if an image of Mike Ashley’s face was added for good measure.

The wives and girlfriends walked on to a strange fenced-off area on the pitch in front of the West Lower. This gave Alan an easy laugh :

“That’s the John Terry area…”want, want, got, got, want, want, want, got…”

The minutes ticked by but eventually the stage was set. With Neil Barnett at the helm, players were announced, and cheers rang out. Although the Barclay’s corporate colour, and that of the stage and assorted props, is of a lighter blue than we normally see at Stamford Bridge, I was not too concerned.

I was hoping for a splash of red in the procedings, though. The presence of a smattering of Chelsea Pensioner scarlet always adds a sense of history and perspective to these occasions at Chelsea. Alas, the Royal Hospital was not represented.

As Jose Mourinho walked towards the platform, he looked towards Roman Abramovich and gave him a prolonged “thumbs up”and an extra wave.

“Thanks for having me back. Waitrose eggs never tasted better.”

There were extra-special cheers for Cech, Fabregas, Hazard, Drogba and Terry. Our captain, of course, was the last in line.

We waited.

With everything set, with the cameras poised, with 40,000 sets of eyes inside the stadium centered on the huge chunk of silver, with millions watching worldwide, with Kathryn, Tim, Andy and Jim watching too, our captain hoisted the 2014/2015 Barclay’s Premier League trophy high.

From above, royal blue and white tinsel cascaded down. There was tinsel in 2005, in 2006, in 2010 and at all of our Wembley cup wins too. It seems that where ever we go these days, blue and white tinsel is not too far away. Long may it continue. Great plumes of orange flame fired into the air from in front of the East Lower. Everywhere there were smiles. Soon, the players reassembled together for obligatory team photographs.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

And then, Neil Barnett spoke :

“Didier wants a word.”

The crowd hushed as Didier took the microphone.

“I don’t really know what to say…”

He spoke for a minute or so, about his two spells at the club, his thanks to Jose Mourinho, his love of his team mates and of us, the fans. There was also a kind and thoughtful word for Frank Lampard too. It was classy stuff.

I watched, with Dave, Alan, Gary and Tom, as the players walked past us. Their children accompanied them. I took special care in photographing John Terry and Didier Drogba with the trophy. Petr Cech too. Will we see him again in Chelsea orange or yellow or white? Probably not.

The players headed off to The Shed where Parky and others were dutifully waiting. It was a familiar scene this; for the fourth time in my life, the fourth time in eleven seasons, we were parading the championship trophy at The Bridge.

And yet, if I am honest, I was finding it difficult to fully embrace this particular triumph. This has been a tough period of my life. February was the toughest month of all. A lot of my focus over the past three months has been on other far more important matters. The football has been a backdrop to my life rather than the centrepoint. To be blunt, this championship season, running from Burnley in August – game one thousand – through the autumn and in to winter, then out the other side into spring, has been increasingly difficult for me to relate to. If it matters, this one has been the least enjoyable of the four championships that we have won in these past ten years. Yet I am sure that this is no surprise to any. Losing my mother in February has overshadowed everything this season.

But I am sure that I will come back stronger next season. I am already looking forward to a full pre-season in the US in July. There are games in New Jersey, in North Carolina, in DC. It will be the perfect start to a new campaign, with maybe slightly a different focus this time around. I am so looking forward to seeing some good – no, great – friends in all three American cities. I am also looking forward to reminding American fans that there is no real need to wear Chelsea scarves in ninety degree heat in the summer, nor is there any need to refer to Chelsea as “Chels” every five fucking seconds. It will be a great trip. Then there is the Community Shield at Wembley and a home friendly with Fiorentina. By the time of the opening league game of the season, I should already have five games behind me. This season, my mark was just forty-two games. From a high of fifty-eight in 2011/2012, this is a rather low total. Our early dismissals in two cup competitions clearly did not help. By the way, if it matters, our brief foray in the Champions League gave me my most treasured memory this season; drinking Morangoska cocktails in the packed side streets of Lisbon on a magical Monday night alongside some dear friends was truly magnificent, as was, in fact, the entire three days in that historic and charming city.

What of the future, then?

We are in a very strong position here. We have the best manager in England. We have an interested and involved chairman. We have a top-notch academy. We have a great youth team. We are Youth Cup winners again. We will strengthen the squad further in the summer. We seem to be keen to redevelop our Stamford Bridge stadium rather than move to a soul-less stadium elsewhere.

All is good.

What could possibly go wrong?

In closing my reports for 2014/2015, a few words of thanks to our players for keeping the desire to win throughout the season and, of course, thanks to many fantastic mates for supporting me through my dark days.

Thanks also for the support for CHELSEA/esque too.

It is appreciated.

See you in New Jersey.

Tales From On And Off The Pitch

Posted on February 3, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 31 January 2015.

I was in my own little spell of Chelsea Mania. The trip to SW6 for the long-awaited appearance of Manchester City would be my fourth visit to Stamford Bridge within just eight days. In addition to the three Chelsea home games, encompassing FA Cup, League Cup and League, there was also the Chelsea Pitch Owners AGM on the Friday.

I don’t always attend these meetings; in fact, the sad truth is that, until the tumultuous events of autumn 2011, I had not bothered too much with the CPO. However, following the club’s toxic handling of the attempted buy-out, I have eagerly awaited any news emanating from the CPO. Other shareholders, I am sure, have felt the same. It certainly galvanised the shareholders and caused all of us to re-focus our thoughts on Stamford Bridge. I attended the EGM in 2011 and also the AGM in 2012, when feelings were still feverish, but did not attend any others. Why did I bother this year? I was keen to hear if there had been any substantial updates on the rumoured expansion plans of the stadium and also to see how the CPO was faring in general terms.

Around one hundred and twenty shareholders, to my reckoning, attended the meeting in the plush surroundings of the Hollins Suite on the third floor of the West Stand. The meeting lasted just over an hour-and-a-half. To be honest, it was all relatively quiet and calm, with few moments of heated discussion. Dan Levine – journalist, Chelsea supporter and CPO shareholder – had requested to be allowed to post immediate updates from the meeting via Twitter and this was put to the vote. It was carried.

It was announced that one of the company’s biggest objectives was to nullify the impact of the over-selling of approximately 1,500 new shares in the period leading up to the football club’s attempted buyout in 2011; that figure will be reached within the next two months.

Questions were asked from the floor regarding the plans to increase the capacity of Stamford Bridge. The CPO board confirmed that there had been no communication whatsoever between the football club and the CPO regarding this. So, no news on that score, unfortunately. I think that many in the room were hoping for progress on this, but alas not.

However, there had been consultation between the local council and 120 interested parties – stakeholders – including the CPO, regarding plans to upgrade the immediate area around the Stamford Bridge site. I, for one, was intrigued by this, since it shows a level of intent by the Hammersmith & Fulham council to develop the relationship between themselves and the football club. It hasn’t always been so. Any positive communication, of which this is a clear example, is to be lauded. It shows a desire by the council to work with Chelsea Football Club. Questions were asked about the size and scope of this possible improvement in the “streetscape” around Stamford Bridge, but very little detail was given. A brief mention of the planting of trees, benches and possible pedestrianized areas whetted my appetite (maybe it evoked memories of an urban geography course I took at college) but elsewhere such talking points were dismissed as being rather boring and not worthy of further elaboration. It was mentioned that Rick Glanvill – club historian and CPO shareholder – was counselled on a possible colour scheme for the area, and I had visions of Rick flicking through a book of pantone references, but there was little other detail. I was keen to ask about the geographical limits of this potential upgrade to the Stamford Bridge streetscape (I presumed it would stretch from the area outside the tube station along the Fulham Road to the railway bridge), but the moment soon passed and the discussion moved on.

There were questions about the selling of new shares, which carries on at a reasonable pace. The board reminded us that they took the decision to set up a “pay as you go” payment plan for those unable to lay out £100 in one hit. This was news to me, and a few others to be honest, but which was well received within the meeting. I raised the issue of overseas supporters and wondered if there had been a change in the geographical profile of new shareholders, since a desire to grow the share base around the world was mentioned at the 2012 AGM. I was pleased to hear that there had been an increase in supporters outside the UK buying new shares and I was keen to point out that, due to the vast size of our global support, this should be encouraged.

It was a good meeting and it was lovely to see a few familiar faces present. It still gives me great comfort to know that I am one of the 19,000 or so landlords of Stamford Bridge.

Chairman Steve Frankham’s statement can be found here :

http://www.chelseafc.com/fans/chelsea-pitch-owners/cpo-news/chairman_s-agm-statement.html

Details on how to buy shares are found here :

http://www.chelseafc.com/fans/chelsea-pitch-owners/buy-cpo-shares.html

It is worth noting that as I left Stamford Bridge after the meeting, I was approached by a tout who was asking after spare tickets for Saturday’s game.

Yep. This was going to be a big one alright.

It was my turn, once again, to drive to London. I travelled with Glenn and Parky. At Membury Services, just to the east of Swindon, we stopped at a Starbucks and Glenn spotted an old school mate – a Sheffield Wednesday fan – who was headed to their game at Reading with his wife. I remembered him from way back too, though I haven’t seen him around town for years. There was a time when Sheffield Wednesday was, briefly, one of our biggest rivals. The 1983-1984 Football League Division Two season has been detailed here before, but another mention will do no harm. In that wonderful campaign, six of English football’s big hitters found themselves in the second tier; Chelsea, Newcastle United, Manchester City, Leeds United, Derby County and Sheffield Wednesday. Although Leeds United’s promotion challenge, along with pre-season favourites Derby County, soon withered away, the other four battled for the top three places throughout the season. In the end, it was Manchester City who just missed out.

I wonder whatever happened to them.

During the next campaign, in addition to two feisty league games with Sheffield Wednesday, there were the classic three game set in the League Cup too. What a host of fantastic memories from thirty years ago. A trip to Hillsborough is long overdue.

Before hitting The Goose, we paid a quick visit to another Chelsea pub, a hundred yards further along the North End Road, The Old Oak. The place was rammed with Chelsea “of a certain generation” and we spotted a few mates. One day I’ll make sure I visit every single one of the many pubs which surround Stamford Bridge, although not in one day, unless Parky is buying.

We reached The Goose at around 3.30pm. A few of the lads had been “on it” since midday. The place was heaving. There were a few City fans dotted around. I was told that a few of them even had a little sing-song at the front of the pub. This is a very rare occurrence in The Goose. There was no trouble, though. In fact, their presence was probably the reason for a little spell of singing, which again is a rare event in The Goose.

There was no talk of Frank Lampard during the time I spent – ninety minutes – in the pub.

I reached the seats just as the teams entered the pitch. Again, the club had chosen to dim the lights in the same style as against Liverpool the previous Tuesday. Additionally, the four huge flags denoting out four European trophies hung proudly from the balcony of the MHU.

It was a lovely sight.

Forced to make changes, with no Fabregas and no Diego Costa, Mourinho chose Zouma ahead of Cahill and Remy ahead of Drogba.

Courtois – Ivanovic, Terry, Zouma, Azpilicueta – Matic, Ramires – Hazard, Oscar, Willian – Remy.

There were four young’uns on the bench; Christensen, Loftus-Cheek, Ake, Brown.

The home crowd continued on in the same fashion from Tuesday against Liverpool, with greater noise levels than usual. Soon into the game, the MHL produced an x-rated ditty aimed at a Sky pundit who may not be allowed back to these parts ever again –

“Frankie Lampard – Your Cousin’s A C**t.”

Although City brought a full three thousand, they were pretty quiet. I only remember one song of note –

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

We countered with –

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

This was entry-level banter and it never really got any better.

It was a rather tight first-half with chances at a premium. City probably had the best chances. Fernandinho shot wide, then Courtois was called in to action to save from Sergio Aguero. A John Terry error allowed Aguero a strike on goal, but the dangerous striker – always a threat in these games – screwed wide. Elsewhere, there was passing and possession from both sides, but little penetration. A sublime tackle by Zouma on Aguero was given God-like status.

This boy looks good and – boy – we’ll let him know it.

With five minutes of the first-half to go, a fine deep cross from right to left by Ivanovic found Eden Hazard, who had stealth fully crept behind his marker. His first time cross was met by the unmarked Remy who slotted in from inside the six yard box.

Chelsea 1 Manchester City 0

Alan tee’d me up.

“Come On My Little Diamonds.”

There was an immediate thought of an eight point gap.

Ridiculously, we allowed City right back in to the game just before the break. City were allowed too much space down our right and Courtois, usually so trustworthy in the air, jumped but failed to stop a cross. The ball fell to Aguero who slammed the ball in and Silva dabbed past the stranded Courtois and the two Chelsea defenders standing on the posts.

Ugh.

If City had edged the first-half, they completely dominated the first part of the second period. City dominated possession and we constantly reshaped to soak up their probing. I was impressed with Ramires, ably closing down space and nibbling away at City attackers. Matic, too, was impressive. In contrast, this wasn’t one of John Terry’s best games. Alongside him, Zouma continued to shine.

With Chelsea starting to enjoy a little more possession, I spotted a familiar figure on the far touchline. Frank Lampard, track suit off, in City sky blue, stood next to his new manager Pellegrini.

Ugh.

Here we go, then.

He replaced Fernando.

Initially, I detected boos but these were soon drowned out by warm applause. No name calling – no “Super Frank” – like we experienced at City in the autumn, but just a growing number of Chelsea fans showing their pleasure in seeing an old friend by simply clapping. That this clapping soon morphed into a “Chelsea” chant was perfect. I was proud of my fellow fans. Well done.

I’ll be honest; I spent an inordinate proportion of my time during the remainder of the game keeping an eye on Frank.

My worry was obvious.

“Just put someone on Lampard” I whispered to Alan.

“Two if necessary.”

This was genuine concern amidst our nervous humour.

Please Frank – don’t score.

Mourinho rang the changes and on came Drogba, Cahill and Loftus-Cheek.

We kept them at bay. On at least one occasion, Frank gave the ball away.

“Good boy.”

With five minutes still to play, a few fans left. I was speechless. Not only were they missing the most crucial part of the game, they were also missing out on the chance to say thank you and farewell to one of our finest ever players.

“…mmm…maybe you were the ones booing. Best you leave, then.”

One last period of City pressure was repelled and the final whistle was met with relief all around me.

Phew.

Our first dropped points at home this season and a pretty dour performance. We shouldn’t complain, though. Robbed of two of his key players, this was typical Mourinho.

I watched as the players shook each other’s hands and there were embraces between others. All eyes were on Frank Lampard. He walked alone from The Shed towards us in the Matthew Harding. He clapped us and we reciprocated. No boos, no silliness.

I don’t know the intricacies of Frank’s departure from Chelsea, or the exact detail of his employment at New York City or his temporary deployment at Manchester City.

All I know is that at the away game in September and at the home game in February, on his long walk to say goodbye, there were no smiles from Frank.

He was sombre. He was alone with his thoughts.

He simply looked gutted – on both occasions – that it had to be like this.

Tales From The Joker’s Return

Posted on January 6, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Watford : 4 January 2015.

This was a rather dull F.A. Cup draw. With many potentially unusual away trips up for grabs – Rochdale, Dover Athletic, Cambridge United, Yeovil Town, plus a nice selection of others – the hands of fate gave us a rather tedious home draw against Watford. At least, on paper anyway, there was a very good chance for us to progress in the competition.

This was another “rest day” for me. Glenn very kindly took his turn to drive. On the journey to Stamford Bridge we were chatting about all sorts of stuff in the front two seats of Glenn’s camper van, while Oscar Parksorius was relaxing in the back, headphones on, listening to Clodagh Rodgers’ Greatest Hits. We updated each other with what has been happening in our lives since the last time we had the chance to speak, and football was only occasionally spoken about. After the heavy loss at Tottenham, we only skirted over a few related topics.

“I wish this was a league game today mate. It would give the players a chance to make up for Thursday and get some points on the board.”

We briefly spoke about the occasional rumours about expansion plans at Stamford Bridge.

“To be honest, there’s a fair bit of space behind the West Stand even now. It’s not out of the question to build some support pillars on the forecourt and slap an extra twenty rows on the top tier. If you look at Manchester United, Celtic or even Manchester City, their stands are higher than ours. That could add another five or six thousand seats. Then the same thing on the Matthew Harding. We could be up to 55,000 with not too much inconvenience.”

While Parky slid off in to The Goose, Glenn and I made tracks for the stadium. It was a bitterly cold day. However, I had warm memories of almost exactly five years ago to the day. On Sunday 3^rd. January 2010, we were also drawn at home against Watford in the third round of the Football Association Challenge Cup. The day also marked my mother’s eightieth birthday and so I treated her to a couple of days in London, culminating in the game on the Sunday. It would be, I am sure, my dear Mum’s last trip to Stamford Bridge since she is now suffering with arthritis and is unable to walk. We had a lovely time; we had a meal at Salvo’s on the Saturday and stayed at the Copthorne Hotel, met a few players from the ‘seventies, Chelsea won 5-0, a friend bought Mum a cup of tea at half-time and we ended the day with pie and chips in a café on the North End Road. I even caught Mum singing along during the game. Perfect.

Glenn and I met up with a few friends in the same hotel foyer this time around too. The Christmas tree was still up and there was still a lovely festive feel. I had a chat with Tommy Baldwin, who was playing for Chelsea in my very first game in 1974 against Newcastle United. There were also a few laughs with Gary Chivers, who scored one of the goals of the season during the 1980-1981 season, again against The Geordies.

We then walked back to The Goose, via a quick stop at The Wellington, to join up with the troops, who were in the middle of a lively pre-match. The Tottenham match was discussed at greater length and not everyone was of exactly the same opinion. We all agreed, though, that Eden Hazard shone like a beacon on that most dismal of evenings.

Watford were going to be cheered on by around six thousand, just like in 2010, and so Parky was dutifully moved elsewhere. His ticket was in the West Upper, so I volunteered to swap seats with him, allowing me the chance to watch – and photograph – the game from a different angle, while he didn’t have to scramble up ten flights of stairs. Parky would watch alongside Alan and Gary in the MHU.

It is a fantastic view from row seven of the upper tier of the West Stand at Stamford Bridge – my seat was padded and there were red hot heaters blowing warming air towards me from underneath the stand roof – but the whole experience left me stone cold sober. I know that I bemoan the lack of atmosphere at many games these days, cursing the inhabitants of the West Upper at regular intervals for their reluctance to support, but being stranded amid thousands of so-called supporters sitting in almost complete silence is such a depressing experience.

I’m 49 now, well past the exuberant days of my youth, when I used to return from games involving Chelsea with sore throats due to endless chanting. I’m a quiet chap outside of a football stadium, but the emotion of watching my team play has always resulted in me getting involved; singing, chanting, smiling, laughing, chatting to the person next to me, “supporting.”

To be dumped among thousands who don’t do the same was just horrible; if I can help it, I won’t venture there again. I absolutely dread to think what it must be like to have season tickets up there. And let me say that the vast majority of spectators who were in my section were from the UK, so there can be no lazy stereotyping about “bloody tourists.”

In his autobiography entitled “The Clown Prince Of Soccer”, former Sunderland centre-forward Len Shackleton memorably devoted an entire chapter entitled “The average director’s knowledge of football.”

It consisted of a blank page.

I could pen something as equally scathing entitled “My great memories watching Chelsea from the West Upper.”

To be honest, to add to the silent gloom, it wasn’t a very good first-half at all.

Jose Mourinho had rung the changes, as expected, and our team lined up with Petr in goal, a back four of Dave, Gary, Kurt and Filipe, Ramires and Mikel holding, the attacking three of Andre, Oscar and Loic, with the talismanic Didier alone up front. We enjoyed tons of possession, but were unable to break down the Watford defence. It was slow, slow stuff.

To my right, the away fans, were hardly making a great deal of noise themselves, but one song kept repeating and repeating and repeating –

“Mourinho’s right, your fans are shite.”

From my lofty perch in the West Upper, I agreed.

All around me, there was silence. I had been buoyed by fellow spectators joining in with The Liquidator before the game – positive signs – but once the game commenced, there was nothing. And I mean nothing. Not only were the people around me not singing, neither were they clapping. In fact, the vast majority of them were not even talking.

Silence.

On the half hour mark, Didier came close with a header, but the Watford ‘keeper Bond clawed it away. Naturally, I leaped to my feet and clapped, offering the team some encouragement. I sprang up, then realised that everyone else had remained seated. Out of devilment, I quickly scanned the entire tier – to my left, to my right, behind – and I spotted only one person who had jumped to their feet, too.

“Fucking hell.”

Two out of four thousand.

Welcome to my world, 2015.

Of course, the Watford team are now managed by former Chelsea midfielder Slavisa Jokanovic, whose performances in a royal blue shirt, under the then new manager Claudio Ranieri, drew derision from the Chelsea regulars. Before Claudio affectionately won us over, Jokanovic was the dithering Ranieri’s poster boy.

To say that he was disliked would be an understatement. We just couldn’t work out what he brought to the team. He was a tall, but relatively frail defensive midfielder who was slow and ponderous. His performance at Derby in 2001 is, sadly, one of the worst Chelsea performances ever. We nicknamed him The Joker. In typical moments of self-deprecation, when we were struggling, we chanted his name, but I am not sure he got the joke.

We certainly didn’t.

People who moan about Mikel in 2015 should have seen The Joker in 2001.

In light of the poor first-half, Jose “went for it” at half-time. Oscar and Schurrle were replaced by Diego Costa and Willian.

Yes – Didier Drogba, Diego Costa, Loic Remy were all on the pitch.

However, the visitors came close after ten minutes when a shot from Deeney was deflected by Filipe Luis and narrowly screwed past the post. In my eyes, Cech got a final touch, but I may be mistaken.

Thankfully, we took the lead soon after. A rampaging Costa fed the ball to Remy who passed to Willian. He curled a delightful shot past the Watford custodian.

One nil to us.

Alan, Matthew Harding Upper : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, West Upper : “COMLD.”

Soon after, a shot from Didier was blocked, but Remy readjusted his body to volley home. How he celebrated that one.

Three minutes later, Azpilicueta sent over a fine cross, which was met by a great leap by Kurt Zouma, and his perfectly placed header flew in to the Watford net. It was a goal which had capped a fine performance by the young central defender. Nathan Ake replaced Didier with ten minutes to go. Diego Costa struck the base of a post with a viciously whipped free-kick, but the score remained 3-0.

After meeting up with the chaps back in the van, I sadly relayed my experiences in the lofty heights of the West Stand.

“You know what I was saying about putting another five thousand in the West Upper? Forget it.”

Tales From The Butcher’s Hook

Posted on October 6, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 5 October 2014.

After an enjoyable European Away, there often seems to be a sense of anti-climax leading up to the next game. In London parlance this is often termed “after the Lord Mayor’s Show.” Not so on this occasion. A home derby against our oldest London rivals Arsenal, with memories still fresh in our minds of the 6-0 drubbing we gave them last spring, was enough to get the pulses racing.

I travelled up to West London with Lord Parky and Bournemouth Steve. Before the match, I needed to do some scurrying around to meet up with a few transatlantic supporters in a couple of pubs. For once, I would not make it to my usual base camp, The Goose. Parky joined me for a quick pint with some good friends from Southern California – some of the infamous OC Hooligans – at the Prince of Wales at West Brompton. John, Tom, Matt and Phil are “hooligans” in name only; they are some of the nicest bunch of supporters that the US has to offer. It’s always a pleasure to meet up with them. I collected a spare ticket and bade them a fond farewell. I then needed to head off down to the stadium, and my route took me past three pubs which we have frequented in the past; “The Atlas”, “The Harwood” and “The Lazy Fox” aka “The Fulham Dray.” I made a bee-line for “The Butcher’s Hook” and pushed through the crowded front bar.

Towards the rear of the pub, I met up with Leigh-Anne from Toronto, her boyfriend John and his brother Kevin. I had briefly met Leigh-Anne and John in NYC in 2012. I was able to assist in getting tickets for two of the three, while another of their acquaintances procured the third. They were suitably buzzing. Leigh-Anne and John had been in Barcelona during the week, and Kevin had been visiting a mate from Croatia in Milan. We live in a golden age of travel for sure. We’re lucky buggers.

It was lovely to be back in “The Butcher’s Hook” before a game. In addition to being the very location where our club was formed in 1905 – in the room above – it also brought back a lovely memory from 2004-2005. For our game against Birmingham City, my friend Glenn and I attended the match with two very special people; his grandmother and my mother. Before the match, we had enjoyed a lovely pre-match meal in “The Butcher’s Hook” and I was reminded of that very special day. It was wonderful that my mother, aged 75, was able to see Chelsea play in person during our first championship campaign in fifty years. We had all met Peter Osgood in the megastore too. It was a cracking day out.

I guzzled down another pint amidst rapid-fire conversation with the three Canadians about all things Chelsea. Before we knew it, kick-off was approaching fast. I warned Leigh-Anne, John and Kevin to finish off their drinks. It would be a shame to miss the start. Outside the weather was splendid; the gentle autumn sun meant that most were in shirt-sleeves.

At the turnstiles for the MHU, there was a large queue to enter. While we were in line, the stadium PA announced that due to “an incident” the game would be delayed for fifteen minutes. What luck for the three Canadians. I sent them a text; there was no need to rush.

“Start delayed 15 minutes due to an incident. Parky bought a round.”

There were a few rumours about flares being let off outside, but nobody was sure. So, possibly our first and only 2.20pm kick-off.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. For some reason, I was reminded of the famous oil painting by Charles Cundall of the stadium for the Chelsea vs. Arsenal Division One match in 1935, a game which happened to host our largest ever “official” attendance of 82,905. The club constructed a special platform for the artist above the vast terracing above the north-west corner flag and the panorama depicted – or at least the view and the angle of the pitch – was quite similar to my particular view in 2014.

I have waxed lyrical about the charms of the old ellipsoid Stamford Bridge in the past. For all of its idiosyncratic awkwardness, with odd stands and crazy angles, I still miss it badly. The current Stamford Bridge, housing almost exactly half of the 82,905 of 1935, is obviously a fine stadium. There is something quite Chelseaesque about its four misaligned stands. Chelsea has never been about conformance. There had always been an edgy dimension to us, even our stadium.

Ah, our stadium.

It has warmed me immensely to hear that the board of Chelsea Football Club, in addition to testing the waters of the local populace, businesses and council of Hammersmith & Fulham with regard to possible expansion of Stamford Bridge, have allegedly contacted the RFU with a tentative request to use Twickenham while The Bridge undergoes possible improvement.

This is very pleasing to hear. Stamford Bridge is our spiritual home; it makes us who we are in my honest opinion. It defines us. I am heartened that the board has acknowledged this. I wish them every success in redeveloping Stamford Bridge. Let the unpleasantness of the “CPO Autumn” of 2011 be a distant memory.

Who knows, maybe those plans for a 60,000 Stamford Bridge, first mooted by a smiling Brian Mears in 1972, might eventually come to fruition. And, intriguingly, maybe that 82,905 attendance record might just be eclipsed at the home of rugby union. Twickenham currently holds 82,000. Interesting times ahead, let’s hope.

At last the teams appeared. The nine “league ever-presents” were supplemented by Schurrle and Oscar. Arsenal, wearing a very light red, chose to attack the Matthew Harding and for a few seconds, my mind played tricks on me. It seemed like it was the second-half already. Arsenal were supported by three thousand away fans and, although I am unsure, I thought I heard chants from them suggesting that Cesc Fabregas should go away and fornicate.

Classy stuff.

No doubt about it, Arsenal dominated the first quarter of the game. They looked steady and composed in possession, while we struggled to put more than three passes together. We looked edgy and nervous. After a quarter of an hour, however, there were no shots on goal from either side. The memory of last season’s rout was suddenly fading. Arsenal looked a lot more at ease. The first real chance fell to Alexis Sanchez, but a brave Courtois block quelled any danger. Arsenal maintained the advantage. Then, slightly delayed, Courtois fell and sought medical attention. The Chelsea medical team attended our young keeper, while Chelsea fans in Nerdistan fell in love with Eva Carneiro all over again. After a few minutes of concern, Courtois was replaced by Petr Cech.

He received a magnificent reception.

I took a “comfort break” just as the heated exchange between the two managers took place on the touchline. I’m sure everyone enjoyed that, though.

…er, the pitchside scuffle, rather than the thought of me turning my bike ‘round.

On twenty six minutes, Eden Hazard set off on a mazy run which Alberto Tomba would have been proud. He slalomed his way into the box and a wild stab by Laurent Koscielny sent him tumbling. It was an obvious penalty.

Eden Hazard took his time and stroked the ball past Wojzciecjzh Szczszcesesncy.

1-0, get in.

I’ll be honest, the goal was slightly against the run of play, but we cared not. The Bridge roared with approval. Jack Wilshere tested Petr Cech with a run on goal but lost control just as our ‘keeper raced out to smother the ball.

There had been few clear chances in the first forty-five minutes. We were obviously content with a lead, but hoped for more Chelsea chances after the break.

In the interval, Bobby Tambling received his usual magnificent reception from one and all, apart from the 3,000 Arsenal fans, who serenaded him with “you were here when you were shit.”

Classy stuff.

Just after the break, Cazorla drilled a low shot just past Cech’s left post. I momentarily held me head in my hands.

Phew.

Chances were still at a premium. On the hour, Eden Hazard advanced and sent a low cross towards goal, only for Flamini to stab at it and deflect it on to the near post. Chelsea continued to close down space, pester the Arsenal player on the ball, and stifle their passing game. There was special praise for Oscar, not always the flavour of the month, who put in a tireless display. His relentless running, tackling – “nibbling” – and blocking set the tone for the rest of the team.

As the last quarter approached, the manager replaced Schurrle – again, off the pace – with the steadying influence of Jon Obi Mikel. Next, Diego Costa set off on an invigorating run which resulted in a crisp pass to Hazard, who had supported the marauding centre-forward, but whose shot flew over the bar. For all of Arsenal’s possession, they very rarely tested Cech.

The atmosphere was not brilliant, though there were times when the home faithful did their job. The “ole, ole, ole, ole” and the “Jose Mourinho” chants seemed to galvanise the support. With just over ten minutes remaining, Fabregas took control in the middle of the pitch and lofted a high ball over the sleeping Arsenal backline. Who else but Diego Costa darted free and just…just!…reached the ball before the Arsenal ‘keeper could clear. He chested it down and in one movement delicately lofted it over the beaten Szsczszceseszsncy.

Stamford Bridge went into orbit.

GET IN, 2-0.

I snapped away as he jumped and screamed in pleasure down in Parkyville. I hope that the North Americans were able to snap a few too.

Superb.

It was Diego’s ninth goal in seven league games.

And it was game over.

Ah, the absolute joy of being able to sing “One Team In London” without fear of being incorrect.

There was even disbelief and then sudden merriment as Diego da Silva Costa blazed over from six yards after a fine move down the right; the linesman thankfully, in the circumstances, ruled him offside.

At the end of the game, I met outside the Peter Osgood statue in order to sort out yet more tickets for other friends. By doing so, I had unwittingly missed a few scuffles down at Fulham Broadway which had resulted in a few punches being thrown between a few Arsenal and Chelsea followers.

So, let’s re-cap.

Seven games played.

Five points clear.

And…the international break.

Damn you.

Tales From The Best Seats In The House

Posted on April 7, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 5 April 2014.

It is a familiar theme in these match reports for me to contrast the fortunes of Chelsea Football Club for the period of time before – let’s pick a famous date – 1997 and for the period since. There are simple reasons for this. I always like reminding myself, if not others, how damned lucky I have been to be a Chelsea supporter during the previous seventeen years. This is obvious. Other reasons are more tangential to the story. There are contrasts in the atmosphere on match days. There is the bewildering difference in our fan base. On a more personal level, there are massive differences in my circle of Chelsea friends and acquaintances. In 1997, I thought it to be wildly cosmopolitan to number Chelsea fans from Brighton, Southend and Nuneaton in my closest group of match-going mates. In 2014, at the Stoke City match, my fellow supporters came from as far flung places as California, North Carolina, New York, Pennsylvania and Massachusetts.

As I stood outside the Copthorne Hotel at Stamford Bridge just before 1pm, I spent a few moments trying to visualise how the same piece of terra firma used to look back in the days when I was, fleetingly – for no more than three seasons – a Shed Ender. I concentrated on the site of the former blue gates and took the open space now to be my reference point. Looking left, I visualised the dirty brown brick work of the shops which abutted onto Fulham Road. I remembered the old portakabin of a club shop which was so miniscule that it could probably only hold around fifteen people before an unplanned sexual act took place.

“Sorry love.”

I remembered the open space of the forecourt – nothing grand, but it represented as far as we were allowed to go without paying admission, a sort of holding area for our emotions on match days – and the ivy-clad walls of the modest two-storey club offices where I would often get players to sign autograph books as they hurried between there and the East Stand. I reminisced on the turnstiles, virtually unchanged, in essence, since the ‘twenties and the memorable “click click” as I entered. I remembered the laughable gents’ toilet – another bloody portakabin – and then the steps to The Shed; a veritable stairway to heaven.

And then I looked around and saw the modern bricks of the hotels, the restaurants, the modern “Chelsea brand” signs, the rush of foreign tourists with blue and white scarves, the arrival of taxis outside the hotel, the TV crews, all the accoutrements of modern day football. I wasn’t sad. I was just happy that I had witnessed both. I took comfort that my memories were strong; of when we waited in line behind former Arsenal ‘keeper Bob Wilson before a game with Southampton in 1976, when Millwall and Chelsea ran at each other in 1977, when Glenn tried to chat up the two blondes who used to run the programme stall under the wall to the far right, when I spoke to Pat Nevin for the first time before a game with Fulham in 1984 and when we were locked inside the forecourt for our own safety when the ICF came calling later that year.

Within an hour or so, I had met up with Nick – Massachusetts – and Tim – Pennsylvania – and we had enjoyed a quiet chat in the equally quiet hotel bar. Luckily, we just met Ron Harris before we left. I then gave the two chaps a tour around the periphery of the stadium. This was Tim’s second visit, but the game represented Nick’s first Chelsea match at The Bridge. I had met Nick in NYC twice before, plus the game in Philly too. He was – without wishing to state the bleedin’ obvious – very excited about the whole day. I was intrigued and partially saddened to hear that one of the deciding factors behind his trip was to see Stamford Bridge – I am unsure if I should call it the “old” Stamford Bridge since the current incarnation is only thirteen years old – before it is either redeveloped further or we end up playing in Battersea, Earls Court, Brighton, Southend or Nuneaton. I told the story of the CPO and how “my generation” of Chelsea fans can vividly remember the thought of losing Stamford Bridge for good due to the ruinous East Stand; we remembered “Cash For Chelsea” buckets on the forecourt in 1977 and “Save The Bridge” buckets in 1986.

“Save The Bridge.”

It seems almost implausible that mighty Chelsea Football Club ever had to contemplate such a campaign, yet the same three words could well have been used during the “Say No CPO” campaign of 2011.

We live in changed times, we live in the same times.

In The Goose, there was a gathering of like-minded Chelsea souls. I had travelled up with three Chelsea stalwarts who were most definitely pre-1997; Glenn, Lord Parky and PD. Outside, two supporters’ groups from the other side of the Atlantic were swelling the numbers in the beer garden. I was introduced to a gaggle of Chelsea “first timers” including three from the proud city of Pittsburgh. I was also introduced to Leke from The Bronx. With my New York baseball past, I wondered if Leke was a follower of the Yankees too.

He wasn’t. He cared not a jot for baseball. Not to worry. We had Chelsea to talk about.

Leke, like Nick, ended up sitting close to me in The Shed Upper for the game with Stoke City. I was among the twenty-five strong party of New York and Pittsburgh Blues; it was a privilege to be among them. I had, no surprises, left it fashionably late to squeeze in through the Shed Upper turnstiles and arrive at my allotted seat in the fourth row just in time to see the two large flags in the Matthew Harding disappear from view. This was my first game in the Shed Upper since our F.A. Cup game with Stoke in 2010. I was immediately struck with how good the view is from the first ten feet of the Shed Upper. The Shed End is ridiculously small and intimate compared to both towering side stands at modern day Stamford Bridge. I was ridiculously close to the action. The first few rows of the Shed Upper are arguably the best seats in the house. Before me, the stadium looked magnificent. It was, of course, another full house. The Stoke fans, without a win at Chelsea in the league in forty naughty years, were already making a din.

“GOOO ON STOKE – GOOO ON STOKE.”

Beside me was Andrew, a former New York resident now living in Kent. He commented –

“They’re only singing so much because the game is on TV.”

I think he had a point.

Our team contained a few surprises with Salah, Willian and Schurrle behind Torres. I am sure that the US visitors were happy to see Frank start. It was clear from the kick-off that the Stoke fans to my immediate right were going to be consistently noisier than the Chelsea fans around me. This, as we all know, is the norm.

Away fans sing, home fans watch.

I’m sure that there was a Norwegian fan group sitting behind me; a song soon into the match contained no English words at all. A father and son behind me kept saying “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” and I’m thankful that nobody joined in. An irate Irishman behind me soon drew my ire by calling one Chelsea player an “eejit” and then loudly criticised another. I bit my tongue. There are a fair share of moaners around me in my normal seat over one hundred yards away so I am used to “tut-tutting” to myself during games. It would also be too simplistic for me to say that my presence among the tourists of the Shed Upper was a metaphor for the new Chelsea. We have always had a fair share of visitors at The Bridge for as long as I can remember.

But something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the noisy Stoke fans. Maybe it was the constant use of smart phones and cameras by the surrounding visitors.

“But you take lots of photos at games, Chris.”

“I know. I was being ironic.”

It just felt…I don’t know…it just felt different. I just think I missed my usual seat, my familiar view for the best part of eighteen years, my usual companions. In all honesty, despite our dominance from early on, the atmosphere was quite muted. Surely the result on Wednesday in Paris and the up-coming game on Tuesday were both counter-productive to producing a noisier atmosphere. On more than one occasion (OK, fifty-six to be exact), I let my mind wander…

“2-0…we just need to win 2-0.”

After a noisy song from Stoke City about the joys of eating oatcakes, spinning a piece of Wedgewood on a potter’s wheel or some such other Stoke tradition, the Chelsea choir behind me responded with a hearty chorus of –

“You Never Won Fuck All.”

I again tut-tutted and explained to Bob –

“Wrong on two counts. Double negative. And they beat us in the 1972 League Cup Final.”

Andrew had his own particular take on this –

“We’re just politely reminding them that they have won something.”

“Yeah, and what thanks do we get?”

Before I knew it, Chelsea were completely dominating the game and were starting to pepper one-time target Begovic’ goal. Just after half-an-hour, the ball was played out to Mohamed Salah by Nemanja Matic and the Egyptian’s low shot thudded in despite a slight touch from the Stoke ‘keeper.

It was time to celebrate and time to relax. I think most Chelsea fans had written off the league title, but it was important to keep the pressure on the reds of Liverpool and the blues of Manchester. A header from Branislav Ivanovic was wildly celebrated by us in the Shed Upper and it took us all a rather embarrassing amount of time to realise that it had been called back, presumably for offside.

Our dominance was total, but the noise was half-hearted. I have often wondered what it must feel like to finally attend a game at Stamford Bridge after years of support…all of that yearning, all of that longing…only for the atmosphere to be slightly subdued. I guess this, sadly, was one of those days.

In the second-half, we were treated to a substitute appearance by the snarling Scot Charlie Adam who soon chopped down Andre Schurrle. On the hour, Salah was unceremoniously hacked down by Wilkinson. Although Eden Hazard, scorer from twelve yards in Paris on Wednesday, had replaced Schurrle, Frank Lampard called rank and took the penalty instead. His rather poor effort was blocked by the ‘keeper, but Frank was on hand to slam home the rebound in a scene similar to Claude Makelele’s first ever goal for us in 2005.

“2-0…yes, 2-0.”

Not long after, Willian capped a fine display by squeezing the ball around a Stoke defender and into the goal. As soon as he moved the ball onto his right foot, I sensed a goal.

And there it was.

As easy a 3-0 win as I can remember.

Ashley Cole and David Luiz appeared in late cameo appearances and the US guests were surely happy with that.

Job done.

Tales From Another Unbeaten Run

Posted on February 23, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 22 February 2014.

I picked two good games to miss. Due to other much more important matters, I chose to not to attend the disappointing back-to-back away games at The Hawthorns and The Etihad. What a couple of stinkers they were too. We were on top, although not on song, during the first period against West Brom, yet bizarrely took our foot off the pedal after the interval and conceded an equaliser that was on the cards for quite some time. Immediately after this capitulation, Jose Mourinho’s comment about “winning 1-0 at football is easy” seemed rather ridiculous. Then, at Manchester City, we never ever got going at all. It was as one-sided a match as I can remember; we were lucky to get naught. The difference twixt League and Cup performances against City was huge.

Leading up to the game with Everton, there was a feeling that the manager and team “owed us one.” For the six thousand loyal fans that travelled in the wind and the rain last Saturday, that feeling must have been immense.

Thankfully, the weather was devoid of the typhoon conditions that have paralysed parts of England for the past two months; as I drove to London with PD and LP, it was a clear and sunny Saturday morning and the car was soon rocking to the sound of PD’s infectious laughter and to the music of The Specials.

We reached The Goose in good time; we were inside at around 11.15am. Despite a rather truncated pre-match session, we enjoyed tons of laughs and banter.

…mmm…I’d like a £10 for every time I have written words to this effect in these Tales over the years.

Amidst the general merriment, I was glad to hear disapproval from two good friends of the manager’s latest sound bites, which this time involved a distasteful personal dig at Arsene Wenger. I know that the Arsenal manager is a cantankerous old duffer, but to hear Jose Mourinho label him a “specialist in failure” seemed rather classless and – yes, I’ll say it – embarrassing. A couple of us agreed that we enjoyed the earlier part of the season when the Chelsea manager (perhaps reacting from a gentle tap on the shoulder from those above) chose to play the silent game and let our results, as the old cliché goes, speak for themselves. Mourinho’s virtues are many; he is a master of men, he empowers his charges with supreme confidence, he is meticulous in his planning, he is a charismatic leader. When he is on form, his comments to the media can be fascinating, humorous and wise. I do not understand why he needs to belittle others – his rivals – at times.

Our view was that if Chelsea were ten points clear of the chasing pack, in the month of April, then the bombastic Jose of old might have been easier to stomach. With everything so tight at the top, at present, there was a feeling that Mourinho’s comments were not needed and might well result in eggs on our collective faces come May.

And maybe not Waitrose ones, either.

There was a quick rush down to Stamford Bridge, past Paul Canoville who was at the CFCUK stall, in order to get to the turnstiles in time. Thankfully the weather was still holding up; it was, in fact, a gorgeous winter day. I think a few of us were regretting the choice of a warm jacket or pullover.

Inside, there was a quick glimpse over to the away segment to see a full allocation of three thousand Evertonians, but only one Everton flag, the size of a tea cloth.

Our team seemed strong. Over on The Shed balcony, the orange “Drogba Legend” banner loomed large. I wondered if our collective minds might be on Wednesday’s encounter with Didier’s Galatasaray.

No. I hoped not. This was a massive game (aren’t they all these days?) and I trusted that manager, players and supporters alike would be fully-focussed.

This game felt like a game we simply had to win.

The portents were undoubtedly good.

I have been lucky enough to see every one of our league games with Everton since the 1994-1995 season; a span of almost twenty years. Ironically, we lost that game in November 1994, but have remained unbeaten ever since.

Won 9

Drew 9

Lost 0

I can easily remember the sense of disappointment after a single Paul Rideout goal gave the visitors a slender 1-0 win on that day over nineteen years ago. Why should I remember that particular game after all these years? Well, it was a big day in the history of Chelsea Football Club. It marked the opening of the new North Stand.

The last game of the sweeping North terrace took place a year earlier. The last time I saw it in person was during a horrible Ian Wright-inspired loss to Arsenal in November 1993. Its last game was a little later against Manchester City. I never watched a game from this terrace; I wish I had. For many years, I chose to stand in The Shed, before gravitating to The Benches. For the big games, the North Stand became a battle ground for the more – ahem – maladjusted elements of our support; despite segregation, a wild time was often had on that open expanse of old time terracing.

The new North Stand gradually rose over the next twelve months. At the time of the 1994-1995 opener against Norwich City, The Shed had disappeared too. In its place was a temporary stand housing around three thousand. At the other end, the North Stand appeared to be a fine looking structure, albeit slightly smaller than I had hoped. Over the first few months of the season, more and more seats were added until it was ready; the stand’s first game, with a slightly reduced capacity, would be for the visit of Everton on 26 November 1994.

Russ, Glenn, Alan and I had tickers behind the goal in the upper tier for this game; we just had to be there. For a stadium enthusiast like myself, I couldn’t miss being there for its first game. It was Stamford Bridge’s first new structure in over twenty years.

I can remember us being in the old Black Rose, which was to latterly become The So Bar, opposite the old West Stand entrance. There was a real buzz about the place. I can remember that the BBC1 lunchtime programme “Football Focus” was live at Stamford Bridge; this felt like a big honour, that the occasion was being suitably marked.

Once inside the new stand, it felt fantastic to be so high above the Stamford Bridge pitch and – of course – so near to the action. Away in the distance we could see the flats above the Fulham Road and the towers of the Lots Road Power station. Our little part of London suddenly came alive. It was, of course – as the saying so often goes – “typical Chelsea” for us to lose to Everton on this auspicious day.

It still rankles, even now.

However, since that day…Chelsea have played nineteen league games against The Toffees at HQ and have enjoyed another unbeaten run. That Everton were playing in an away kit which greatly resembled Tottenham’s home kit of last season felt like an added good luck omen. We haven’t lost at home to Spurs since…well, you know…since when Adam was a boy.

Before the game, the teams stood together in the centre of the pitch and Sir Tom Finney was fondly remembered. There are those who say Sir Tom was even better than Sir Stan, that his game was more rounded, more complete. He will be missed by the proud folk of Preston and elsewhere.

The bright sunlight above SW6 cast strong shadows on the green sward down below. It felt like the game was perhaps taking place in May; ah, memories of that sweet Fernando Torres strike last May which completed that rather tumultuous league campaign.

Samuel Eto’o was again chosen to lead the line and was assisted by a midfield of Oscar, Willian and Hazard ahead of Matic and Lampard. At the back, JT was paired alongside GC. The full-backs picked themselves. Where this leaves Ashley Cole is anyone’s guess. As always we began with bucket loads of possession. However, our players sadly seemed reticent to get Tim Howard involved in the game. There was the usual over-elaboration and a shyness to shoot. I made the point to Alan that it often seems that away teams visit Stamford Bridge with our reputation, heightened since Mourinho’s return, ahead of us. Very often there is nothing more than a “weathering of the storm” from most visitors in the first quarter of the game. I feel we need to exploit this lack of enterprise from the away team from the first whistle. We need to give them ten shades of hell in the opening attacks. If not, teams get a foothold – mental as well as physical – and often build in confidence.

Lo and behold, Everton soon grew in confidence and, with their usual attributes of hard-working midfielders, managed to stand firm against us. Before we knew it, Everton were giving us a real battle. The highlight of the early exchanges was a fine finger-tipped save from Petr Cech which denied a rasping shot from Leon Osman. Chelsea tried to break and to find space, but our play floundered in the final third. There was little movement off the ball. Things were getting to be a little frustrating.

Our best chance of the half involved several players down our right, with the ball eventually reaching Eto’o. He showed fine footwork to move the ball in to space but his low shot was saved well by Howard. There had been little else to cheer. Few Chelsea players had shone. Oscar and Hazard hadn’t caught the eye. Willian’s enthusiasm to cover every blade of grass was the one positive. However, our defence rarely looked in danger.

At the break, Alexey Smertin walked the pitch with Neil Barnet. In the programme, with the lovely review of the iconic 1983-1984 season continuing, there was a great piece on the 3-3 draw at Cardiff City. With PD alongside me, this was just right; I first met him on the train home after that match almost thirty years ago.

Mourinho chose to replace the quiet Oscar with Ramires at the break; I hoped for more urgency. We had no more than a succession of half chances, but just before the hour, Petr Cech reacted supremely well to a deflected shot from Osman, palming it away at his near post.

Soon after, Tim Howard was to foil Chelsea twice within a few seconds, first parrying a low shot from Hazard and then miraculously blocking a thunderous volley from Ivanovic.

The atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was tense. There were pockets of support roaring the team on, but few times when the entire stadium was one.

Jose rang the changes, replacing Willian with Fernando Torres. To my consternation, rather than play Torres and Eto’o upfront together – a new problem for the Everton defenders – Eto’o moved out to the right and the two never linked up. Then, another change.

Eto’o off and Andre Schurrle on.

A bit more pace maybe?

Although Torres never really received many quality passes, at least his energy seemed to energise the crowd. Nemanja Matic and Ramires began causing Everton problems with a couple of runs. A sublime cross from Ivanovic found Schurrle but his volley was rushed; Howard was untroubled.

I felt that a momentum – at last – was coming but, alas, the clock was ticking…

However, with only five minutes to go, some of the home supporters had decided that “enough was enough” and began their way home. I’ll never understand the rationale of that.

Tick, tick, tick.

With the full ninety minutes almost on the clock, Ramires advanced and set himself up for a shot. Earlier, an effort from way out was ridiculed.

“Why shoot from there? You never score from there, Rami.”

This effort, a low rasper, whizzed past Howard’s right post. It was wide by the narrowest of margins. The assistant referee signalled a full five minutes of additional time and I still had faith.

Another Ramires run, bursting away from markers in the inside-right channel, was halted by a clumsy challenge from the otherwise impressive Jagielka.

We waited for Frank to settle, for the wall to retreat. The position of the free-kick was just right for Frank, who had not enjoyed the best of games, to send an in swinger into the six yard box. Here was a chance for the ball to possibly tempt Howard to come and claim, but how often do we see ‘keepers caught in no man’s land and end up being beaten by the slightest of flicks?

We waited.

I looked down at Big John in the front row and silently urged him to do what he does best.

I knew he would.

“BANG BANG.

BANG BANG BANG.

BANG BANG BANG BANG.”

The MH responded –

“CHELSEA!”

I snapped a photograph as Frank clipped the ball in.

A flurry of activity – confusion – and a roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd as the ball ended-up crossing Howard’s goal line.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

One half of me continued to yell, the other half took some photographs of John Terry (oh my goodness, it was JT who scored!) running away, hotly pursued by others.

I turned to the supporters in the row behind me – strangers – and we just yelled at each other.

Magical, magical times.

My heart was pounding, my head had gone.

The picture I took of Alan, yelling, is a classic.

An Everton attack came to nothing. There was no response. The referee blew for full time.

Get in!

As I made my way out, I felt exhausted…I’m sure I wasn’t alone.

Phew.

The unbeaten home run against Everton now advanced to 10-9-0 and we were, if only for a few hours, a lovely four points clear at the top of the table. I made my way back to The Goose after collecting a couple of extra tickets for Fulham next Saturday and met up with a few of the chaps. On my way, a white mini-bus, crammed full of Evertonians, slowly edged past me and one Scouser looked at me and mouthed an obscenity.

I ignored him.

The poor buggers; beaten in the last minute after a dogged display and now a hot and cramped trip back to Merseyside in a mini-bus.

Rather them than me.

There was a lovely little post-game laughter session involving Lord Parky, PD and Dave The Hat in our corner of The Goose. We all agreed that it had been a tough game, but one that we were so happy to win. I was pleased to hear Dave say that the atmosphere from where he watched the game (down below me in the MHL north-west corner) was the best he had experienced for a while.

Good stuff.

Next stop – Istanbul.

I will see some of you out there.

Tales From The Team At The Top

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 6 October 2012.

Who would have possibly thought that our league season would have started so well? The rather lacklustre pre-season seems distant. Not even the most optimistic Chelsea supporter could have envisaged such a fine opening six league matches. We went onto our home game with Norwich City at the top of the table. Throughout the few days leading up to the match at Stamford Bridge, one thought kept entering my head.

“Let’s just keep grinding out some wins.”

There is a strong likelihood that our league campaign will throw some stern tests our way. There will be pitfalls ahead. There will be challenges. There will be blips. However, let’s keep winning the home games, let’s keep going. Let’s keep amassing the points, in the same way that squirrels plunder nuts, before the treacherous winter hits us.

For a change, Gunner Parkins was able to meet me in Frome. At 9.15pm, I collected him from outside The Cornerhouse pub and we were on our way. Parky enjoyed the different approach into London; like Arsenal last week, I was able to drive in via Salisbury Plain, the A303 and the M3. It was another picture perfect autumnal morning.

Once in London, I quickly walked down to Stamford Bridge. I met up with Gill and Graeme for a few moments in the hotel foyer. I wondered how many of the Chelsea fans were oblivious to the two gentlemen quietly sitting in their usual alcove. Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti, the two heroes from our ‘seventies team, are often untroubled by the hotel guests.

Outside, I took a few photographs of the old Shed wall. There are now photographs from Munich interspersed with images of past players.

Ashley Cole, Dennis Wise, Didier Drogba, Peter Bonetti, Frank Lampard, Gianluca Vialli, Fernando Torres, Ron Harris.

Back in The Goose, I spent my time talking to Steve, a friend from Kent, whose company I used for Italian haulage at work a while ago. While others were talking about all things football, Steve and I chatted about European road haulage. I kept to my habit of supping slowly at just one pint. My friend Simon, who I have known for the best part of twenty years, has some exciting times ahead. He is involved in the making of a film and the shooting starts in November. I’m not sure he’ll be attending many Chelsea games during the shooting; the agenda will involve twelve hour days and working for six days a week. There a few well-known actors taking part in the film, including John Hurt of “The Elephant Man” fame, but Simon has already confirmed that he is going to find a little walk-on part for his son Milo somewhere in the filming. In another life, Simon used to produce the occasional pop video, and has worked with Paul Weller amongst others. His most well known, and successful video, was for the sublime “Brimful of Asha” by Cornershop in 1997.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lM7H0ooV_o8

Steve and I made sure there was no last minute scramble and reached our seats a good twenty minutes before kick-off. I was able to take a few photographs of the team going through their pre-match routines; I very rarely see this. I’m usually in my seat with seconds to spare.

Chelsea and Norwich City. Our paths haven’t crossed too often over the recent years. Everyone remembers the Gianfranco Zola back-heel during the run to the 2002 F.A. Cup Final, but I was sadly not present at that game. I forget the reasons why; I guess I was caught on the wrong shift, in the days when Parky and I used to work in the same Trowbridge warehouse.

I always remember our game against Norwich City on opening day in August 1994. We had lost the F.A. Cup Final in the May, but the vibes were good going into the 1994-1995 season. Not only were Chelsea taking part in European competition for the first time since 1971, but Stamford Bridge was being reconstructed. The sweeping north terrace – sadly I never stood there – last saw active service in 1993 and was demolished through the closing months of that season. In its place, the new North Stand rose beyond some high advertising hoardings. It was the first new stand at Chelsea since the East Stand was constructed between 1972 and 1974. The Shed terrace’s last game was against Sheffield United in May 1994. For some reason, we decided to watch that game high up in the East Stand and that was a decision I often regretted. In its place, Chelsea decided to go with a temporary stand until planning permission came through for the new Shed and hotel. Around 3,000 seats were bolted together, on a criss-cross of scaffolds, and the temporary stand lasted two seasons.

For the game with Norwich City in August 1994, Glenn and I travelled up from Frome with Russell. At the time, he was a 15 year old schoolboy and the game would be his first ever game at Stamford Bridge. He had attended an infamous F.A. Cup game at Ashton Gate in 1990, but the less said about that the better. I remember his mother waving us off from his house. This would be the first time that Glenn and I had been entrusted with the welfare of a “youngster.”

The baton was being passed on.

I remember that we visited a long forgotten pub on the Fulham Road called “The Stargazy” ( I think it became a restaurant around ten years ago) for pre-match drinks. My mate Daryl used to work with a QPR fan, who grew up with the then Chelsea youth team player Craig Norman. On this particular day, Craig met up with us for a while. This was quite a thrill for young Russell. Craig Norman never made the grade at Chelsea and drifted off to play for Wycombe Wanderers and ended up as captain of Kettering Town. Russell and I always joked that the main reason why he never made it at Chelsea was because, as the story goes, he once told the then youth team coach Eddie Niedzwiecki to “fcuk off, you Welsh tw&t.”

The over-riding memory from that game in the August sun from over eighteen years ago was of the new temporary stand. For the first time in almost ninety years, a section of the crowd was now mere yards from the goal-line. It was quite a sensation. We were sitting towards the West Stand side and it felt so exciting to be – at last – part of the action. The Benches, to our left, seemed within touching distance. It fired up my imagination to let my mind wander and visualise what it would be like once all four stands were tight against the pitch.

Good times were ahead.

With no spectators in the north stand, capacity was cut to around 23,000. However, with the denizens of The Shed now shunted forward twenty yards, Stamford Bridge was a riot of noise on that inaugural day of the new temporary stand.

On the pitch, we easily beat the Canaries 2-0.

Under Glenn Hoddle, we finished mid-table in that season, but the campaign will be fondly remembered for our unexpected onslaught on the ECWC, when we reached the semi-finals. In the November, the North Stand opened with the visit of Everton. Times were changing and it was a thrill to attend games in that 1994 to 1997 era, not only for the football, but for the constantly evolving stadium which confronted us every two weeks. In that 1994-1995 season, I really ramped up my support of the team. My previous “bests” had been during my college years – around 20 games a year – but I went to 29 in 1994-1995, including forays to the Czech Republic, Austria and Spain.

Along with 1983-1984, it was my “breakout” season.

Russell, now 33, still comes along to a few Chelsea games these days. We obviously didn’t put him of.

In 1994, I remember the away fans were given 1,500 seats in the lower tier of the East stand. In 2012, the Norwich fans – some 3,000 strong – were in the Shed. They boasted just one flag; a green and yellow “Union Jack.”

Far from grinding out a narrow win, thankfully the goals flowed as we put together a very confident and entertaining performance.

Despite gifting Fernando Torres the chance to open the scoring in three minutes, the chance was spurned. I’m not exactly sure why he didn’t shoot with his favoured right peg. Why would he come back onto his let foot?

Norwich took the lead against the run of play when the troublesome Grant Holt fired home a loose ball from inside the penalty area.

Thankfully, this just inspired us.

A delightful sweeping move found Juan Mata who back-heeled into the path of Branoslav Ivanovic. The ball was clipped in to the box and Torres rose to steer the ball past Ruddy into the goal.

Eighteen goals now for Chelsea and, yep, I’ve seen ‘em all.

Frank Lampard crashed the ball in from the edge of the box. He just has the knack of being in those places, picking up the pieces. It was a typical Frankgoal.

Then, the pass of the season so far. Juan Mata dribbled forward, with the defence back-peddling and threaded the ball inside the Norwich defenders and into the path of the advancing Eden Hazard. The ball was passed into the net. Marvellous stuff.

At half-time, Neil Barnett advised us that Frank had now tied Bobby Tambling’s record of 129 goals in the top flight of English football. I wonder if Frank will reach Bobby’s overall total. It will be a close run thing. In light of Great Britain’s excellent performance at the Olympics and Paralympics, we were treated to a fantastic parade at the interval. Around twelve of Team GB’s medal winners walked onto the pitch, with a large Union Jack flying proudly. All medal winners were Chelsea season ticket holders.

Superb.

With three goals to the good, it was the time for gluttony in the second half. Let’s score some more goals. Let’s boost our goal total. Let’s make our upcoming opponents even more fearful of our prowess.

If the truth be known, despite the lovely approach play from the attacking players, the second-half was a little disappointing. Even at 3-1, Alan and myself were sure that Norwich would score a second and make the rest of the game a nervous affair. I guess almost forty years of watching Chelsea play has made us who we are; we’re never safe until the referee blows for time. Fernando Torres spoiled another gift-wrapped chance after a gorgeous defence-splitting ball. On another day, Nando could have scored three. However, our number nine has now scored four goals in seven league games this season. Bobby Tambling is way off, but it’s a lot more encouraging, isn’t it?

And some of the interplay was wonderful. Although Mata was the star, I was again very impressed with Oscar, who rarely loses possession. We’re in for some thrills at the old stadium this season for sure.

Ivanovic volleyed home like a master predator to seal a 4-1 win.

Lovely stuff.

The only negative involved the support. Apart from a few roars of “Champions of Europe – We know what we are” and “Super Chelsea” there were many moments when I heard several pins being dropped in Knightsbridge, Battersea and Pimlico.

We now break for two weeks. Even if we allowed everyone else in the division a free game, they still wouldn’t be able to get past us at the top.

Good times.

See you all at Tottenham.

Tales From Underneath The Arch

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 5 May 2012.

During the preceding week, I was trying my best to nurture positive thoughts and the appropriate amount of anticipation ahead of the F.A. Cup Final. I will admit that I was genuinely struggling. For starters, there is no doubt whatsoever that the role of the F.A. Cup Final in the football calendar is at an all-time low. I have commented about the reasons for this on many occasions. Suffice to say, the accelerating importance of both the League and the Champions League, the huge amount of football games on TV these days, the playing of semi-finals at Wembley, the abolition of second replays, the playing of the Final itself before the league season itself has finished and the general mismanagement of The Cup by the Football Association over the years are the main reasons why we are in this current situation.

This current state of affairs leaves fans of a certain age, like me, in a bit of a predicament.

I yearn for the Cup Final Days of my youth when the world – or at least my world – would virtually stop on the second Saturday in May. Those days were wonderful. The first F.A. Cup final I remember was the centenary game of 1972 when a diving Alan Clarke header gave Leeds a 1-0 win over perennial finalists Arsenal. And the memories from the next ten years are still rich to this day. In those days, we only had three TV channels, yet BBC1 and ITV both showed the Cup Final, with saturated coverage starting from around 11.30am through to 5.30pm. It was the only club game shown “live” on TV. It was a football enthusiast’s heaven. I always favoured the BBC’s coverage, but would often channel hop to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. The heady years of Cup Finals in my mind were from 1972 through to 1983 – from the ages of 7 to 18 – and of course, Chelsea were in involved in none of them. The nearest we got to the Twin Towers in that period were the quarters in 1973 (Arsenal) and 1982 (Spurs.)

Those defeats still hurt to this day.

So – anyway – you get the picture. Despite the elation of reaching another Wembley final, part of my psyche was labouring under the burden of the fact that things would never be the same as they were in those heady days of my youth. It was tough going, but I was trying my best to get my head around it all. To be honest, the fear of losing to Liverpool was helping to concentrate my addled mind. I was getting there. I could almost see the crescent of the Wembley Arch.

And then Chelsea Football Club fcuked it up. They completely disrupted my thoughts on the Friday with the news that they (and I use the term “they” wisely) had officially bid for the site of the Battersea Power Station. Now then, I am yet to be totally persuaded that my club needs to vacate our home of 107 years, but that is not the point. The point is that the club announced this massive piece of news on the eve of The Cup Final. My Friday afternoon at work in Chippenham was spent thinking about the pros and cons of Hammersmith & Fulham over Wandsworth, Stamford Bridge over The Samsung Arena, North versus South, District Line over Northern Line, old versus new, home versus new home.

To be honest, I was livid.

But yet – how typical of Chelsea F.C. to misjudge the mood of the moment. The club, the fans and the team needed to be together ahead of the Cup Final with Liverpool, yet here they were – obviously still smarting from the CPO defeat in November – quite relishing the chance to bully a point across. Rather than focussing my mind on the game at Wembley, my mind was poisoned by the thought of myself attending the last ever game at Stamford Bridge in maybe six or seven years.

Oh boy.

Thankfully, when I awoke at around 6.30am on Cup Final Saturday, my mind was clearer and focussed on the day ahead. This was good news indeed. I took a while to decide what to wear; this is always a tough part of each match day for me…all those shirts, all those options…but even more so on Cup Final Day. I opted for the lime green of a Lacoste long-sleeved polo and the muted grey of a CP top. I knew that Parky would be similarly attired. The last time I wore a Chelsea shirt to a Cup Final was in 1994 when I wore – hoping for a repeat – a 1970 replica shirt. But more of 1994 later.

I pulled out of my drive at around 8.45am and a Depeche Mode CD was playing. The closing notes of one song ended…a pause…then –

“When I’m with you baby, I go outta my head – and I just can’t get enough, and I just can’t get enough.”

And then my brain started whirring.

“Just can’t get enough” – yep, that’s about right. I certainly can’t get enough of Chelsea. And then I remembered that Liverpool are one of the several teams who have purloined this song from under our noses and I wondered if I would rue my day beginning in this way. I remember the Scousers singing this at The Bridge in the autumn and I shuddered. A repeat at Wembley? No thanks.

Parky – yellow Lacoste polo and grey Henri Lloyd top – was collected at just after 9am and we were on our way. I had pinned two Chelsea chequered flags to my car and I was keen to see if any other Chelsea cars were similarly attired as we drove up the M4. Surprisingly, on the drive east, we only saw two other Chelsea cars – and a Liverpool mini-bus. A car glided past and I spotted a bloke with an Arsenal replica shirt at the wheel. I smirked and he tried to ignore me. By the way, can anyone explain to me why that Arsenal vs. Norwich game could not have been played on the Sunday, along with all of the League fixtures? We were sharing the billing on just another football Saturday and it wasn’t right, damn it.

We reached Chelsea at 11am and – for some reason – I wanted to drive past Stamford Bridge before parking up. In truth, the place was pretty quiet, save for Bob The T-Shirt’s stall already at work. I imagined the area being full of non-attendees come 5pm.

We began with a quiet pint at “The Prince Of Wales” at West Brompton. There was drizzle outside as we caught the tube to Edgware Road. Nearing Notting Hill, however, Andy Wray sent me a text and advised that he was at “The Victoria” at Paddington. That was perfect timing and we quickly changed our plans. Several pubs in the Paddington area seemed to be overflowing with Liverpool fans. At just after 1pm, we met up with Andy, Ben, Dave Chidgey and a couple more Chelsea fans in the cosy confines of “The Victoria.” I spoke briefly to a Chelsea fan from Vancouver. Poor Ben was suffering with a hangover. I hoped he could recover quickly. Talk was of the new Battersea Stadium and of Munich. We then caught a cab to “The Duke Of York” where the lads were already enjoying a pre-match. The pub seemed quieter than for the semi-final and previous Cup Final visits. Ben commented that the main talk inside the boozer was still of Munich. Notable absentees were Simon, Milo and Daryl – all Munich-bound, and working on Brownie Points for the day. I chatted with Ben and Andy outside. The weather was mixed. I was glad I had my jacket with me. Talk was varied. Ben spoke about the Boston Blues and Andy spoke of The Olde Shippe. It was difficult to track my mood; to be truthful, I just wanted to get up to Wembley ahead of schedule and enjoy the moment.

Andy went off with Alan and Gary at about 3.45pm. Ben came along with Neil, Ed, Parky and little old me just after. We caught the 4.15pm from Marylebone and the packed train was full of Chelsea, united in song. The carriage was rocking. Ben had recovered from his previous night’s carousing with Cathy and Kerry Dixon and was joining in like a veteran. It was great to see him leading a few choice chants. I began one song –

“If you’re standing on the corner…”

We soon pulled into Wembley Stadium and met up with a drunken band of Chelsea fans from Trowbridge, singing songs about slums and dead cats. The rain was holding off. It was a grey and decidedly dull day, though. Unfortunately, there was a horrendous delay at turnstile L at the western side of the stadium. I’m afraid to say that this caused me to miss – again! – the traditional Cup Final hymn “Abide With Me.” Our seats were in block 538, row 24. Up and up we went.

Row 24 was the very back row. Seat 363 was just to the south side of the goal. In truth, we were only around 15 yards from our dead-central position at the 2010 Cup Final.

OK, here we go. A quick scan. The Liverpool balcony was bedecked with red banners and easily out-did our end. Had somebody forgot to bring the eight to ten permanent banners at Stamford Bridge? There were small blue flags by each seat, but not many waved these. I had my cameras at the ready. I was annoyed with myself for missing the build-up, but at least I was in for the entrance of the teams.

With the two teams lined up, the Liverpool fans were still bellowing out “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” I was worried that the old habits of the ‘seventies, when Cup Final teams often sung over the national anthem, might be resurrected. Oh dear, how correct I was.

As “God Save The Queen” began, all that could be heard were the boos from the Liverpool end. However, the Chelsea fans soon out-sung the boos and the stadium was roaring by the time the last few words were being sung –

“Send Her Victorious, Happy And Glorious, Long To Reign Over Us – God Save The Queen.”

Were the boos by the Liverpool fans some sort of retaliation for the “Murderers” chants by some foolish Chelsea fans at the Spurs semi-final? Yes, for sure – but that only tells part of the story. Both Liverpool the city and Liverpool the football club see themselves as some sort of a free-spirited and anti-establishment utopia, railing against the perceived prejudices of the rest of England. They are pro-Liverpool, but anti-everything else. They are no big fans of the London government – especially a Conservative government which they still abhor for the Hillsborough aftermath, the London media, the FA. They evidently see the Royal Family as part of this picture. I have read that the Scousers were not happy that the Royal Family were not more supportive in 1989. And so it goes on. The over-whelming sense of ills being acted out against them.

There was a banner which was held aloft for a few seconds before the game began, which referenced Hillsborough once more –

“Expose The Lies Before Thatcher Dies.”

Into this mix comes Chelsea Football Club. The blue versus the red. The southern club with money but no history. The club with a history of right-wing support . The devil incarnate. Blue rag to a bull.

This Cup Final was always going to be a tinderbox in the stands.

Speaking personally, I did my best to ignore the “Murderers” chants by those around me and decided to support the team in as positive way as I could. This was my eighth cup final and it seems strange, knowing how dominant Liverpool were in my youth, that this was our first one against them. I had a further scan before kick-off and I was dismayed to see a few pockets of unused seats in our end. We had been given 25,000 seats for this game. I briefly thought back to that 1994 Cup Final when we lost 4-0 to Manchester United. We only received 17,000 for that game and yet I can well remember that we didn’t even have 17,000 members in those days. My dear friend Glenn wasn’t a member that season, but had applied for his 1994-1995 membership early. As a result, his name was put into a raffle for the last few Chelsea tickets and was overjoyed when Chelsea called him on the ‘phone to say he had been successful.

It made me realise how far we have come in eighteen years.

Less than 17,000 members in 1994.

More than 25,000 season ticket holders in 2012.

What will we be in 2030? Or – more pertinently – where will we be?

Maybe there is some sanity in Chelsea’s desire to move out of Stamford Bridge.

I put these worrying thoughts to one side as I turned my complete attention to the 2012 F.A. Cup Final. There were no surprises in the Chelsea line-up; Didier was leading the line, ready to add to his phenomenal haul of goals under the arch. I was surprised to see Craig Bellamy in the Liverpool team ahead of Andy Carroll.

Chelsea dominated possession in the first part of the game. This did not surprise me. If we were underdogs for Munich, surely we were the slight favourites for this one? We were the team in form, whereas Liverpool were floundering several places below us in the league table.

We did not have to wait long for a goal. Juan Mata was allowed time and space in the centre of the pitch and played a magnificent ball into the path of the advancing Ramires. It was eerily similar to Camp Nou. This time, there was no chip, but a low drive at Reina’s goal. Before we knew it, we were 1-0 up and the Chelsea end erupted. I was shouting like a loon, but steadied myself to capture a few of the celebrations away down below.

Wow.

Soon after, Ivanovic did well to block a Bellamy effort which was certainly goal bound. This was a cagey game, though, with few chances. A fine dribble by Salomon Kalou deep in to enemy territory petered out. Long shots from Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba and Kalou did not worry Reina. We rarely looked in danger, though, and I was very content to see that Luiz Suarez was having a quiet game. Downing and Bellamy were buzzing around, but our defence was in control. In the middle, our trio of Mikel, Lamps and Ramires were covering space and not allowing Gerrard much time to impose himself on the game.

The atmosphere was hardly noisy. It all seemed a little too easy. The Liverpool fans were not singing too loudly either. There was a strange feeling to the evening.

At half-time, our intelligence was insulted with a feeble attempt at entertainment and I won’t even bother explaining it.

As the teams re-entered the pitch, the Liverpool fans held their scarves aloft and sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” but even that felt half-hearted. Parky had disappeared for a beer at the break, but hadn’t made it back. The second-half began with a couple of chances for both teams. Kalou set up Ashley Cole but his shot was blocked. There was ludicrous penalty appeal by Gerrard. However, right after, a fantastic move had us all buzzing. Jon Obi Mikel played in Frank Lampard and he, in turn, slotted in a slide-rule pass into Drogba. He found himself in roughly the same area as against Arsenal in the semi of 2009 and Spurs in the semi in April. A touch, a shot, a goal. The ball was slotted in with fantastic precision at the hapless Reina’s far post and we erupted once more.

Didier has done it again.

He raced over to the far corner and I again steadied myself for snaps. His little victory jig was magnificent. Oh, how he loves playing at Wembley. Four goals in four Cup Finals. Phenominal.

Parky finally re-appeared, having been drinking a beer with Whitey when Didier’s goal had given us a hopefully unassailable lead. He didn’t look sheepish, he didn’t care. Good old Parky.

“And It’s Super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea F.C.
We’re By Far The Greatest Team the World Has Ever Seen.”

Another strong dribble from Kalou, but he shot over. A Lampard free-kick. This was all Chelsea and I was silently dreaming of more goals. Juan Mata set up Didier but he only hit the side-netting. The Chelsea choir was now in full voice. How it must have hurt the Liverpool legions to hear songs of European Cup Finals.

“Che Sera Sera.
Whatever Will Be Will Be.
We’re Going To Germany.
Che Sera Sera.”

It was the loudest Chelsea chant I have heard at new Wembley.

And then the game changed. Bosingwa lost the ball and Downing fed the ball in to Andy Carroll, the Liverpool substitute. Carroll twisted John Terry one way and then the other before rifling the ball high past Petr Cech.

The red East end roared.

Game on.

The last thirty minutes seemed to be all Liverpool. Steven Gerrard, previously marginal, was seeing much more of the ball and Carroll looked a threat. Petr Cech did ever so well to get down low to turn a Suarez shot past the post. Raul Meireles took the place of the tiring Ramires. Then Dirk Kuyt replaced Bellamy. The last throws of the dice. The final fifteen minutes.

Our celebrations were proving to be overly optimistic and premature. This was now an intensely nervous affair. Liverpool moved the ball around and we were shuffling around to repel their advances. In a way, it was Camp Nou all over again, with di Matteo’s Italian heritage putting us in good stead to quash any attacks.

On 81 minutes, Liverpool had a spare man out on the right and a great cross found the head of Carroll. I expected the equaliser. In a sudden blur of activity, we saw the header parried by a falling Cech, but we heard a roar and the subsequent run of Carroll away from the goal, celebrating again. The linesman was running away from the goal-line, his flag low. I was confused; was it a goal? Was it blocked? If it wasn’t a goal, how did it happen?

It wasn’t a goal. It was a miracle. Another Chelsea miracle.

How we love that East goal at Wembley. After the Juan Mata goal versus Tottenham, the Cech save against the Scousers. Football is indeed a matter of inches.

Just amazing.

In the final moments, Liverpool shots were either off target or bravely blocked by Chelsea defenders. It was indeed Camp Nou Mark Two. I couldn’t enjoy this though. Just like in 1973, when I sat on my grandfather’s lap watching Leeds United attack Sunderland’s goal again and again, I was clock-watching like never before. We got to 89 minutes…just like Liverpool to score then, Hillsborough and all.

Five minutes of extra time.

Still we chased and defended bravely.

At last – I watched as Phil Dowd held his whistle to his lips and blew.

Chelsea F.C. – 2012 F.A. Cup Winners.

The Liverpool players looked on as Chelsea gathered together in their half and performed a “Ring Of Roses” dance. Around me, there were smiles. Parky was in tears. The Chelsea players slowly came towards us. Didier, shirtless, led the slow advance but was soon joined by his cavorting team mates. I was relieved and happy. This was Chelsea’s seventh F.A. Cup success. The first one, in 1970, was probably the reason why I became a Chelsea fan, though the real reasons are lost in time. I have been present at all six other wins. We love Wembley and we love this cup.

Magnificent.

The Liverpool players climbed the stairs, but most of their fans had left.

How proud I was to see that line of players in royal blue slowly ascend the steps, then disappear from view…tantalisingly…then arrive on the balcony.

The cup was lifted and we roared again.

Very soon, “Blue Is The Colour” boomed around the echoing Wembley arena.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50888885852658

In the last closing bars of the song, I looked up at the scoreboard at the opposite end of the stadium. Just as Ossie, Chopper and co were singing “Cus Chelsea, Chelsea Is Our Name”, the cameraman picked out a young Chelsea fan. He reminded me of me, circa 1972.

Now it was my turn to wipe away the tears.

Down below me, we were in party mode. It was gorgeous.

The champagne, the dancing, the smiles, the joy…the small details.

David Luiz hogging the cup as if it was his own.

Juan Mata grabbing Fernando Torres’ arm and hoisting it up, Torres looking bashful and embarrassed.

John Terry beating his chest.

Frank looking delirious.

The cup looking larger than usual and glinting like never before.

The songs –

“Blue Day.”

“One Step Beyond.”

“The Liquidator.”

“Blue Tomorrow.”

Parky and I were one of the very last to leave the stadium. I was tired and emotionally drained. I had been stood outside the pub, on the train, at the game, my feet were on fire. We met up with Cathy and showed each other a few photos from the day. She had been right down the front, I had been right down the back. In between the two of us, thousands of Chelsea fans, thousands of memories. I spotted Andy and Ben. What stories they would have to tell their friends back home. I commented that we would be running the gauntlet at Anfield on Tuesday night.

We caught the last train out of Wembley Park at 8.30pm with the arch behind us now, lit from below and looking magnificent.

At last I could sit. I was so tired, so drained, but so happy. A Liverpool fan from work sent me a text containing a few words of congratulations, saying that the best team had won, but debated that the Cech save was really a goal. My reply to him?

“Luis Garcia.”

We made our way through central London and alighted at Earls Court. A few minutes later, we were welcomed at “Salvo’s” and were soon toasting Chelsea Football Club on another miraculous victory in this ridiculous season. Salvo mentioned that Roberto di Matteo, visiting with his blind sister back in 1996, once enjoyed a meal at his little restaurant. I reckon that Salvo should erect a plaque – a nice big blue one – above the entrance to “Dall’Artista”to signify this.

It was now 10.30pm and we needed to return home. As we slowly walked back to the car, a Chelsea post-Cup Final karaoke was taking place in The Tournament. We peered in to see a huddle of fans standing on tables, bellowing out an Elvis Presley classic –

“I’ll guess I’ll never know the reason why
You love me like you do.
That’s the wonder.
The wonder of you.”

A few minutes later on the elevated section of the M4, I couldn’t resist a glance to the north. And there it was – the Wembley arch, illuminated still, signalling the location of our most recent triumph.

Didier’s second home.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Stamford Bridge

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Tales From Underneath The Arch