Tales From Our House

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 14 August 2022.

Without any delay, let’s get something out of the way early on. Everyone would have taken a draw from our home match with Tottenham before the game started, right?

Right.

I must have spoken to fifty or more fellow Chelsea fans before the match and all bar two – Mike from New York and King Kenny from West London – agreed with my thoughts.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

Mike, to be fair, didn’t exactly say we’d win but merely answered my statement with a “why not a win?” but Kenny said he fancied us for three points.

We may be Chelsea fans – supporters – but we are also realists. Our play against Everton the previous weekend was off-kilter, a struggle. Tottenham had started the season with a flying win.

“As long as we don’t lose” I kept saying.

I also kept mentioning that our only league defeat at home to Tottenham since early in 1990 took place in the Spring of 2018 – April Fool’s Day, I kid you not – with Antonio Conte in charge of us.

For it to happen again with the same man involved would be horrific.

This was a typical pre-match and one that I won’t hinder you with for long.

There was an early morning start at 6.45am even though the kick-off was at 4.30pm. There then followed a heady spell twixt car and bar with friends from near – PD, four miles – and far – Pete, almost five thousand miles – before I settled into my seat in the Matthew Harding Upper.

My God the heat was ridiculous. On my walk to Stamford Bridge at around 10am, I made sure that I crossed over from the sunny side of the North End Road to avoid the sweltering heat. England’s green and pleasant land had recently been scorched and the temperatures being predicted in London bordered on the scary.

Even more scary was the sight of me in some linen shorts. Thankfully no photographic evidence exists; you are spared.

I loved the “Chelsea Football Club” lettering on the East Stand, mirroring that of the old Leitch stand’s lettering from all those years ago. There is a similar copy on the wall between The Shed and West Lower.

In the pub – “The Eight Bells”, we are creatures of habit – there was a gathering of the clans and some typically boisterous chit chat. Talk veered from memories of last season to thoughts of our chances in 2022/23. I aired a few opinions.

“I reckon we’ll finish between third and fifth.”

“Will be bloody good to see the stadium at full capacity again.”

“Not sure if Tuchel really likes aggressive box to box players like Gallagher.”

“He loves his legion of scurrying and slight attackers. Not so sure he wants a more robust spearhead like Broja.”

The pub became packed and there was a hefty overspill outside. Thankfully, a large fan circulated cold air above our heads. I overdosed on Diet Coke.

The game against Tottenham would mark our first appearance this season in the latest Nike kit. Again, from a long way off, it looks reasonable, though the collar is nasty. I don’t mind the light blue band halfway up the socks, but it would have been ideal to have a similarly thick white stripe down the shorts. None of us tend to buy replica shirts of course.

“Kids and tourists.”

But PD took a fancy to the alleged third kit that has been doing the rounds.

“What colour is it?” asked Kim.

“Muted beige” I replied.

“Muted beige” repeated Parky “I like that.”

“Like our play at Goodison last Saturday” I muttered.

At around 2pm, we were visited by three or four of London’s constabulary. The OB stay out of our way all season down in deepest Fulham but usually appear for a few minutes against Tottenham and West Ham to check on things. Make of that what you will. One policeman in full regalia was holding court on the next table and I heard him proudly state “now your oligarch has gone, your boys are going to struggle this season.”

He was roundly booed.

“Go on, hop it mate. You’ve outstayed your welcome” I said as he sidled past us.

He was Arsenal apparently. He smiled and exited stage left.

We left for the game at 3.30pm.

PD, Parky, Andy, Sophie and little old me made our way to Putney Bridge tube station and all was well with the world. The bright sunlight and strong shadows of the earlier part of the day had subsided. But everything was still sultry and humid.

This was another two game weekend for me. On Saturday afternoon, a few friends and I assembled to see Frome Town play Evesham United in a first league game of the season. A ninetieth minute winner had given the home town Robins a well-deserved 1-0 win in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 359.

The weather in Somerset had been red hot. The temperature in London didn’t feel quite so intimidating.

There was a boisterous atmosphere on the Fulham Road. Just past the “CFCUK” stall, I spotted a Tottenham fan wearing a pair of Lonsdale slip-ons.

I smiled.

My pre-match was complete.

I skipped past the bag-check, and thankfully all turnstiles were fully functioning for game one of the home campaign, a rare event these days.

I was inside at around 4pm.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. No parched earth here. The green sward looked pristine. The kick-off soon approached. I spotted some new graphics on the hotel and apartment walls above The Shed. The players were down on the pitch in our corner going through some pre-match routines and wearing – not training gear – but the new “pre-match gear” which has obviously caused a typical reaction from me.

I am sure a Proper Chels fan in Badgercrack Nebraska will purchase one, to augment his 571 other Chelsea shirts, and then wonder why a trip to SW6 is financially beyond them.

By the way, I could go on, but so many football shirts just don’t look like football shirts these days do they?

Minutes to go before the game was set to begin, we were then treated to flames in front of the East Stand. With that, the supporters in The Shed got going with a Madness-inspired display. I am sure the lads and lasses in The Shed offered us a “House Of Fun” graphic a few years back – I remember drolly commenting that it should be “House Of Pain” for away fans – and here we are again. The Chelsea love affair with the mod revival and Two-Tone era of 1979 to 1982 shows no signs of abating.

A huge banner depicting the “One Step Beyond” line-up – updated to include players and Todd Boehly – surfed over the Upper Tier while “House Of Fun” was hung over the balcony.

After the mention of a China Crisis album from 1982 to accompany my match report from last weekend’s match in Liverpool, here was a single from that very same year featuring in our first game in London a week later.

Music and football. Music and football. Music and football. Music and football.

Suggs will be hosting an evening of personal recollections in Frome in October and I am sure this will become the seventh musical event for me this year that has an echo of 1982. Throughout the coming season if you eat your vegetables and tidy your bedrooms I will be treating you all to a smattering of Chelsea-coloured memories from 1982/83.

A Fortieth Anniversary Special of our Worst Ever Season?

You bet.

Proper Chelsea.

In the MHL, there was a Star-Spangled flag with an image of Todd Boehly.

Really?

Ain’t this going over the top a little?

I wondered if Marc Cucarella might play inside and mark Son Heing-min, hopefully out of the game.

“I’m sorry, Son…”

But instead Reece James was in the back three.

Our line-up?

Edouard Mendy

Reece James – Thiago Silva – Kalidou Koulibaly

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – N’Golo Kante – Jorginho – Marc Cucarella

Mason Mount – Kai Havertz – Raheem Sterling

The first interchange between the two tribes did not take long.

Tottenham : “Antonio – Antonio – Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

Chelsea : “You’ve won fuck all.”

One-nil to us.

There was a slight flutter of apprehension when Jorginho lost possession on the half-way line but the resulting Tottenham counter-attack withered in the summer heat.

On eight minutes, a fine move from us and a lovely cross from King Kante that hit the danger area of the six-yard box, but floated past everyone.

I smiled at Al : “Lukaku would have headed that in.”

Many a true word is said in jest and all that bollocks.

The away fans bellowed “Y Army” and I tutted.

Kante, like at Everton, was the early star. He and Loftus-Cheek found lots of space – sorry “pockets of space”, I must remember to use as many shitty buzzwords as possible this season…”pockets of space”, “between the lines”, “transition”, “the press”, “high press”, “trouser press”, “Caxton press”, “recycling”, “game management”, it goes on and on – and balls were whipped into the feet of Sterling and Havertz.

Compared to Everton, here was a much more cohesive way of playing. Tottenham appeared on the back foot after a few early jaunts up field.

Koulibaly shot wide from distance.

“A sighter” I said to Al.

After a quarter of an hour played, I was relieved and happy. This was a fine start.

Havertz tested Hugo Lloris who saved well. From the corner that was taken in front of the rather quiet Tottenham fans, Cucarella sent over a great ball into the middle of the box. Miraculously, it avoided all apart from Koulibaly.

I snapped just as he was adjusting his limbs to volley home. His shot was perfection. My shot wasn’t. The net bulged…we watched aghast, amazed at its execution.

He spun away towards a certain corner flag in front of a certain three thousand and the deja vu was astounding, what with the number 26 on his back.

I remembered a JT scissor kick at the same end and – surely? – a slide on his knees, although not in the same game, right in front of some away fans.

It was some goal, some celebration and some noise.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

This felt good. It felt so good to be 1-0 up against the old enemy. But chances were exchanged. Ryan Sessegnon forced a save from our man Mendy. Koulibaly had his third shot in ten minutes but only troubled those in The Shed Upper.

There was a water break hallway through the first-half. At Frome the previous day, there were two breaks in the second-half.

Tottenham’s fans were dead quiet.

I loved the energy seeping through the team. It really was top stuff. We broke in waves. A shot from the neat swivel-hipped Sterling from the inside-left channel was blocked. Tottenham rarely threatened.

“Al, were we as negative as this under Conte?”

A couple more chances came our way. A riser from Mount. A long cross from Jorginho just evaded the leap from the impressive Loftus-Cheek.

At the break, all was rosy.

My good friend Pete – now Seattle, formerly South London – appeared with his son Calvin, witnessing his first-ever Chelsea game. Both had spent time with a few former Chelsea players before the match and I’d imagine these memories will stay with Calvin forever. They’ll certainly stay with Pete forever.

It was Chelsea Smiles in The Sleepy Hollow at the break.

The second-half began with us attacking the Matthew Harding.

Ten minutes in, I noted that there was a lot more of a physical presence from Havertz in this game. After the 2021 Champions League Final in Porto, he didn’t really push on last season. I am unsure of his best position, as I suspect are many.

Shame I don’t play FIFA; then I’d know.

Sadly, Tottenham’s performance looked a little more co-ordinated. There was a fine stop, down low, from Son that Mendy executed perfectly. A Mount effort narrowly missed the goal, dropping just over the crossbar.

Richarlison appeared for Tottenham. I had forgotten that they had bought him.

The ball was worked to Sterling but his studied approach and footwork didn’t result in an equally fine finish; his shot was blasted high and wide.

On a break, Harry Kane was one-on-one but his shot was tamely scuffed wide.

How we laughed.

Halfway through the second-half – much more evenly contested now – we broke with Havertz rushing past the half-way line. He appeared to be chopped down but the play was waved on. With boos cascading down from the home areas at the loathed Anthony Taylor, Tottenham moved the ball forward. Jorginho made a hash of clearing and the ball fell invitingly to Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg whose low shot evaded a dive from Mendy and crept into the goal’s far corner.

Bollocks.

In front of the benches, all hell broke loose.

(God, that could be a sentence from 1985…)

A substitution : Cesar Azpilicueta for Jorginho, with Dave going into the middle three to allow James to push on as a wing back.

Not long after the switch, we caught Tottenham on the hop and a central Sterling played an absolutely perfectly-weighted ball to James who was steam-rollering in to view to his right. I clicked just as Reece let fly but again my shot didn’t match the player’s. The ball crashed past Lloris.

Pandemonium in South West Six.

Screams of joy from me, just as there was when Frome got the winner on the Saturday but louder and more intense, to a factor of one billion zillion.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

But then my veins turned to ice to capture the mad celebrations in the opposite corner.

Phew.

We were back on top, 2-1 up and I thought of King Kenny, watching on in the front row of The Shed.

The noise had been decent all afternoon and now Stamford Bridge was on fire.

Some more substitutions followed.

Conor Gallagher for Kante.

Christian Pulisic for Sterling.

Armando Broja for Havertz.

Gallagher looked all action as soon as he entered the field of play. One run to stifle a Tottenham break was textbook. He then set up Mount who fired weakly wide and then shot himself but saw his effort blocked.

Into time added on for stoppages and it all got messy.

There was a delay after a Tottenham effort was deflected high for a corner. The scoreboard flashed “VAR REVIEW POSSIBLE RED CARD VIOLENT PLAY” and all of the 40,000 in Stamford Bridge were none the wiser.

Was it against one of our players? Was it against a Tottenham player? We had no clue. The watching millions at home knew. It’s them that matter, eh?

Anyway, the review was over and play continued. I had a brief worry about us losing our concentration.

On ninety-six minutes, a corner was swung in.

My eyes were steely focussed.

I saw a leap of some players at the near post.

The ball fell away, it fell down, it fell forward, it fell into the goal, my heart sank.

Pre-Match

First-Half

Half-Time

Second-Half

Tales From Harry Potts Way

Burnley vs. Chelsea : 26 October 2019.

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

Deepest Somerset to deepest Lancashire.

A round trip of four hundred and eighty miles.

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

Burnley in late October was a different proposition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s always bloody freezing in Burnley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIP.

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

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

The team?

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta.

Zouma.

Tomori.

Alonso.

Jorginho.

Kovacic.

Pulisic.

Mount.

Willian.

Abraham.

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

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

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

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

Three pinks, three wins.

Commendable.

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

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

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

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

GET IN.

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

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

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

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

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

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

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

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

Lovely stuff.

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

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

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

And Pulisic’s third of the game.

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

A left, a right, a header.

It was.

Fantastic.

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

But then it got a little silly.

Possibly.

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

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

I didn’t join in.

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

If so, perfect.

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

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

GET IN.

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

Now this was just foursome.

FOUR BLOODY NIL.

Norwich : 3-2.

Wolves : 5-2.

Southampton : 4-1.

Burnley : 4-0.

Mr. Pink was beaming.

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

Some substitutions, keeping it fresh.

Reece James for Marcos Alonso.

Olivier Giroud for Tammy Abraham.

Callum Hudson-Odoi for Willian.

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

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

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

Oh well.

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

Burnley 2 Chelsea 4.

Oh crazy day.

I looked at Gary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is potentially a cracker.

I hope to see some of you there.