Tales From The Hunger Game

Posted on December 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 December 2013.

Although it would be foolish to call the Arsenal vs. Chelsea encounter a “championship decider” – surely there were no fans of either club so intoxicated with pre-Christmas cheer to let their red or blue optimism rise that high – this always felt like a massive game.

Our biggest match of the 2013-2014 season thus far? Probably.

Pre-match thoughts were mixed. Our form has been patchy of late. The lack of a killer punch in front of goal, defensive frailties, an unsettled starting eleven, much chatter from the drinking classes; November and December 2013 had seen a derailment of our earlier form of September and October. August seemed distant.

I’ll be honest. I feared the worst. If things went against us, this one could turn out to be a heavy defeat. Thank heavens that Arsenal’s much talked-about ability to implode after a heavy defeat was part of the equation too. Six goals against at Manchester City was just the fillip that I needed to balance my negativity.

Against this back-drop of concern for our chances in North London later in the day, the worsening weather conditions added to my worry. A text from Parky suggested that the game might even be called-off due to the expected heavy rain and high winds.

At 3pm, on the last full day of work before the Christmas shut-down, I left the office and collected Parky from the rain-lashed pub car park opposite. The extra hour to travel up the M4 to London would hopefully mean that the journey would be as stress-free as possible.

I often describe this journey to the nation’s capital in these reports with colourful passages of prose; to do so on this occasion will not take long. Suffice to say, the two hour trip was very tiring. The rain fell, the gusts of wind rocked my car, the spray made concentration difficult, the winter gloom enveloped my car. Grey, grey, grey.

The Scots have a word for it; dreich.

I have a word for it; shite.

The Piccadilly Line would be our mode of transport from Acton in West London to Highbury in North London. We actually had tons of time to spare; we alighted at Earl’s Court and had a drink at “The Courtfield” pub opposite the tube station.

“Merry Christmas, mate.”

“And you, sir.”

The pub was quiet, save for a few tourists, sightseeing over for the day, enjoying a pint and a meal. I love London pubs; this one had an old-time feel, with a high ceiling and mirrors behind the bar. It was a perfect staging post for our trip further north.

However, in the back of my mind, there was the constant churning over of our current ailments of this season. Wait a moment :

“Ailments? Bloody hell, win tonight and we’ll be equal top at almost the half-way point of the season.”

Quite. And yet this negativity was typical. Maybe I’ve been a Chelsea fan for too damn long. Maybe it’s part of my psyche to become fearful where no threat exists or to over-analyse perceived faults when none are real.

The table can’t lie can it? We were in fifth place, right in the mix, ready to strike hard in the congested Christmas period.

And yet, and yet…even the most ardent and devoted Mourinho disciple would surely admit that our form has stumbled of late. I’m certainly no expert on tactics, formations and suchlike and so I won’t tarry too long describing all of that. I’ll leave that to others.

It is clear to me, though, that Mourinho has clearly inherited a different mix of players in 2013 compared to the all-conquering squad of 2004. In some respects, he is blessed, in others he is hampered. Straight comparisons are so difficult though.

A young Terry versus an old Terry?

A young Lampard versus an old Lampard?

Carvalho versus Luiz?

A cool and steady Paolo Ferreira versus a tough and physical Ivanovic?

Gallas versus Cahill?

Duff versus Willian?

An unfettered Robben versus a raw Schurrle?

A show-boating Joe Cole versus a show-boating Eden Hazard?

Makelele versus Mikel?

A young and erratic Drogba versus a troubled Torres?

Petr Cech.

We have to give Jose Mourinho time to sort this all out. It’s ironic that in one sentence us Chelsea supporters collectively say “we will give him time” (meaning in essence that we might have to take a step back before several forward) and yet in the next are up in arms immediately bemoaning a loss.

I guess this is the nature of the beast.

I guess that we need to re-learn patience.

I’ll be honest, I’m dining out on Munich 2012 for the next five years; if we win nothing for the next few seasons, I won’t be moaning. I’d be disappointed if we won nothing until 2020, but my vision won’t be clouded by the need for constant gratification.

In the meantime, let’s hope that we can rally behind the manager. Let’s hope he can find that magical mix of personnel to take us forward; a combination of tenacity, guile, physical prowess, belief, confidence, fight, skill, adaptability and flair.

One more word.

Hunger.

Without that hunger – definitely present during that first Jose summer of 2004 – the team will flounder. Hunger should be what drives every squad member to success.

I’ll drink to that.

At 6.30pm, we left Earls Court – what a grand old station it is, hardly changed since I stood on the District Line platform for the very first time in March 1974 – and we descended deep beneath the wet London streets. Back onto the waiting Piccadilly Line train, the carriages full of Arsenal, then the short ride to our destination.

At Arsenal tube station, I always think back to my very first visit – August 1984 and “all that” – and a few of the subsequent others.

At Highbury, I never saw us beat Arsenal. At The Emirates, I’ve seen all three of our league triumphs.

Highbury was a lovely old stadium, especially in its pre-Taylor Report version with two large terraces at each end and two art deco masterpieces to the side. I loved the way that it blended in perfectly with the neighbouring terraced streets. The Emirates, despite what many say, is also a great stadium, but for different reasons. It’s major failing is the lack of identity, the lack of character, the lack of a reminder of Arsenal’s past.

“This could be anywhere.”

Oh, the Arsenal fans don’t help. A more pompous set of self-obsessed whiners I am yet to encounter on my travels the length and breadth of these isles. Additionally, they had the chance to rid the club of its Highbury “library” connotations and turn The Emirates into a hot bed of noise. They have failed.

I was inside the away end in good time on this occasion. I soon met up with Alan and Gary, fresh from work, and we waited for the stadium to fill up. There were familiar faces everywhere. Above me, the several layers of Goonerdom looked down upon us.

Replica shirt : check.

Red and white scarf : check.

“Arsenal, Arsenal, ra ra ra.”

It was clearly apparent that the weather had put many off. Opposite in the lower tier of the west stand, there were many empty seats. Around all sections of the stadium – even a few in the away corner – there were similarly unoccupied seats. However, even when thousands of seats remain empty at The Emirates, Arsenal still publishes full houses to the world.

Soon into the game we sang “your ground’s too big for you.”

Fernando Torres was chosen to be the lone striker, but the players in the midfield caused me a few moments of thought to work out positions and formations.

“With Ramires, Lampard and Mikel, is he playing 4-3-3?”

It wasn’t clear.

Were Willian and Hazard playing in midfield too? Was this a 4-5-1? From my low-lying position in row 16, I gave up on formations and became engrossed in the game. I had been feeling very tired while sitting in the warmth of the pub, but I was wide awake and focussed now. Football does that.

In the first few minutes, Mesut Ozil enjoyed a little early possession alongside Tomas Rosicky. In my mind, we were giving them a little too much space.

“Come on midfield, close’em down.”

I wanted to see that hunger to harry and chase, nullify and contain, then break with pace and vigour.

As the first-half continued, the Arsenal midfield looked less likely to cause us much damage as, thankfully, we denied them much space to work the ball in that old Arsenal way of old. It was clear that this would be a physical battle. Thankfully, the Chelsea team were clearly “up” for it.

A few Arsenal attacks were ably resisted. A Willian cross from wide right found a leaping Ramires, but his header looped over the Arsenal cross bar.

The home areas were supremely quiet. Our section tried its best; at times we were noisy with song, at others disjointed.

With chances at an absolute premium, we then came closest to scoring. A divine ball over the last line of defence by Eden Hazard into the path of a bursting Frank Lampard made us all inhale a breath of expectation. Frank’s fine volley crashed against the bar, then bounced down, but not in. We were unable to scramble in the loose ball. The away fans roared and Chelsea enjoyed a period of domination. Torres, ably winning a string of headers, but quiet in front of goal, at last produced a save from Szcsesny.

Willian and Walcott “came together” inside the box, but Mike Dean wasn’t convinced.

In the closing period of the half, towering headers from Torres and Ivanovic helped contain the Arsenal threat. Gary Cahill was excellent alongside John Terry.

A fine break down our left resulted in Willian shooting weakly at Szczesny after good work from Hazard; there were Chelsea players unmarked in the box. It was a poor choice from Willian. But, at least we were producing chances.

At the break, the fans that I spoke to were positive. It dawned on me that Ozil, their star man, had been quiet. This performance from the boys was more like it. Big games always help us focus our minds.

“We’re in this lads.”

I roamed around for a few minutes during the break, hoping to bump into some mates from afar. A rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cath was still ringing in my ears as I stood alongside Alan and Gary as the second-half began.

The rain still fell.

The second-half began quietly. Arsenal struggled to get a foothold. Chelsea broke occasionally. A booking for Ramires. This was turning into a physical battle and I wondered if Dean would be soon handing out more cards at Christmas. Fernando Torres leaped high and cushioned a ball for Frank, but his low shot didn’t threaten the Arsenal goal.

At the other end, the Chelsea defence were standing firm. At times, it didn’t look pretty but block after block from Terry, Cahill, Azpilicueta and Ivanovic were grimly effective. I lauded their efforts. The tackles still crashed in. The rain still fell. Mikel broke up Arsenal’s play and it was a pleasure to hear the Chelsea fans around me applauding him.

As soon as I had commented to Gary “Mourinho must be happy, there have been no subs” a change took place.

Andre Schurrle for Eden Hazard, then Oscar for Willian.

Ramsey fed Giroud, both quiet on the night, but his shot didn’t trouble Petr Cech. As the away fans sensed that a point was likely to be the outcome, celery was tossed towards the Arsenal fans in the overhanging tier. The Arsenal fans grew frustrated. There was a lack of belief in the Arsenal team throughout the game; as I suspected, the memory of conceding six in Manchester was difficult to erase.

Another chance for Giroud, but Cech foiled him.

We were sternly hanging on.

David Luiz replaced the tireless Torres, and then soon had a chance to send us into Blue Heaven. A free-kick, thirty yards out, Luiz territory. We hoped and prayed. Sadly, his shot was straight at the defensive wall.

A 0-0 draw? I happily took it. It looked to me, at least, that the hunger was back.

A last chance to wish a “Merry Christmas” to a few good friends as we ambled out into the dark North London sky.

I met up with Parky outside the away end and we began the slow walk back to Highbury and Islington tube. Hoods up, we walked. Everyone was drenched. The Arsenal fans, I could tell, were frustrated

A moral victory to the boys in blue?

You bet.

We reached my car at around 11.15pm and embarked on a slow and painful drive west back into the still raging storm.

I dropped Parky off at around 1.30am.

From there, things soon descended into farce.

I eventually reached home at 4.30am, very tired and very weary. This was long after my car had been caught in rising flood water on a quiet Wiltshire road, abandoned, unable for me to push it safe. I was given a lift back to the outskirts of Frome by a kindly policeman in a 4×4, who himself miraculously appeared – a modern day Christmas miracle – just after I had stepped out of the shelter of another car which had been stranded and then recovered. We then almost got caught in a flooded road as we edged through a ridiculously narrow country lane, with main roads blocked by floods. At 3.30am, I walked through the deserted streets of my home town, my jeans soaked to the skin, my feet freezing, but thankfully the rain now stopped. Lastly, another lift home in another 4×4, this time our journey included a few nervous seconds underneath the branches of a fallen tree, the scene of desolation quite surreal. And all the way through this, I kept thinking to myself –

“All this for football?”

See you all at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day.

Tales From The Lap Of Honour

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 13 May 2012.

After ten months of – cliché warning – highs and lows, the 2011-2012 season was approaching its inevitable conclusion. The game against relegated Rovers was always going to be a strange game and I drove over into Wiltshire to collect Young Jake and Old Parky with a mixture of happiness and sadness. Happy to be paying our respects to the team, at home, before the mammoth game in Bavaria. Sad to be travelling the well-worn path up to Chelsea Town for the last time for a few months.

After opening with a flurry of songs by Stiff Little Fingers, we were soon hurtling east to the sounds of Chelsea fans Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher.

“I’m taking a ride with my best friend.”

Another picture-perfect day. The sky was dotted with white clouds, the sun was out and the green fields of Wiltshire and then Berkshire were awakening from the dull months of winter. We spoke a little about the denouement of this crazy Premiership season. No question who I wanted to triumph.

“I just hope City win it, lads…in the most dramatic and heart-breaking way possible for United.”

We sped past the Madejski Stadium at Reading, then Windsor – Ossie’s town – and then in to London. The Shard was visible way in the distance and the Wembley Arch to the north. The roads were strangely quiet. As I sped in past Fullers’ Brewery at Chiswick, it felt like I was taking part in a city-centre grand prix. The road ahead was completely clear of traffic.

I parked up to the sounds of Depeche Mode’s funky version of “Route 66.”

“Well it winds from Chicago to LA.”

No mention of Beckington, Trowbridge, Melksham, Chippenham, Swindon, Reading, Slough, Brentford and Hammersmith, though.

At 12.45pm, we were inside The Goose and the first person I bumped into was Mark Coden, who some of you know from previous U.S. tours. Unfortunately, he was still without a ticket for Munich, but was going regardless. I wished him well and then met up with a gaggle of mates out in the sunny beer garden. Unsurprisingly, the talk was virtually all devoted to Munich. Most of the people I spoke to were Bavaria-bound and the sense of anticipation was tangible. Everyone wanted to know which route Glenn and I were taking. Everyone seemed to be going their own separate way.

East Midlands to Zurich.
Manchester to Munich.
Stanstead to Stuttgart.
Heathrow to Stuttgart
Bristol to Prague

We all agreed that the next four days of work would be the longest four days of all time. We just wanted to get to Munich and let the party begin. There were a few comments backing up the widely held view that this had been the most unlikely of Chelsea seasons. I always remember two contrasting moments.

Walking through Bristol airport in February on my return from Naples, we were 3-1 down and most likely heading out of Europe.

“Wonder when my next Champions League trip with Chelsea will be?”

At that same airport around two weeks ago, I had a bounce in my step as I covered the same ground. We were off to Munich in the Champions League Final.

Staggering. Stupendous. Ridiculous. Magnificent. Bewildering.

All of these words.

If I was an American, I would no doubt use just one.

Awesome.

Conversations were abuzz all around me. Special mention for two friends; Milo 15 and Ed 22. The trip to Munich, with their fathers Simon and Daryl, will be their first ever away games in Europe. They know how lucky they are. They are great lads and it will be a pleasure to drink with them next Saturday. Our plan will be to assemble in a secret location – a beer hall – far away from the crowded city centre and then see how the mood takes us. We all agreed that we would rather spend four hours in the company of some friendly locals rather than three hours amongst the divs singing “Ten German Bombers” ad nauseum in the Marienplatz. Regretably, Parky isn’t going to Bavaria. This would be his last game of the season and he was celebrating it by throwing pint after pint of lager down his throat.

Andy from Nuneaton is going to Munich with several others of his mates, but he is the only one with a ticket. I wonder how many Chelsea will be heading to Germany without a match ticket? Five thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe more?

Breaking the protocol, Simon and I even spoke about Roberto’s possible team selection for the game in Munich. I ran through my personal thoughts. Hopefully, the twin central defenders Gary Cahill and David Luiz will be fit. If not, we will struggle against the crosses from the flanks aimed at Mario Gomez. I’d pick the speed of Bosingwa over the experience of Paolo. Fingers crossed on that one.

Peter Cech, Jose Bosingwa, Gary Cahill, David Luiz, Ashley Cole.

Holding, there are no other options apart from Jon Obi Mikel and Frank Lampard. Michael Essien is past his best – and it hurts for me to write this – and Oriel Romeu is too inexperienced.

Then, the three attacking players.

I’d go with the pace and honest endeavor of Salomon Kalou, the touch and guile of Juan Mata (our kingpin) and then the spirit and skill of Fernando Torres. I can see Kalou and Torres doubling back to thwart the threats of Ribery and Robben. I can’t see Florent Malouda or Daniel Sturridge putting in that same level of commitment, Champions League Final or not.

Up front, Didier Drogba.

If the centre-backs are doubts, one supposes that either of Bosingwa or Ferreira would have to shuffle in to the middle.

It was 2.30pm and time to leave for the last domestic game of 2011-2012. It was simply exhilarating to be able to utter the magical words –

“See you in Munich.”

On the walk down to the stadium, the streets seemed ridiculously quiet. In Vanston Place, we again met up with Scott and Andy from Trowbridge. There are five or six of them going to Munich from Trowbridge, but with no tickets between them.

“We’ll be there, Chris.”

Further along Vanston place, a piece of classic Parky. On the pedestrianised cobble-stones, there are occasional bollards to stop vehicular access. Parky called out to Jake just as he was approaching a previously unseen bollard. Suffice to say, Jake will never be a father.

On the approach into the stadium, there was still a lack of hustle and bustle. Where were the missing fans? Were they already inside The Bridge? I was puzzled. I made it to my seat just before the kick-off. My good mate Alan presented me with two tickets for Munich and it was fantastic – at last – to get my sweaty mitts on them.

First thoughts about the new Chelsea kit were very favourable. Very smart. Very minimalist. Classy. It reminds me so much of the Umbro kit from 2005-2006. Memories of Crespo, of del Horno, of Maniche.

Roberto’s selection was very interesting. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, but I was intrigued that there were no players from “my” Munich XI playing against Blackburn. Was Roberto thinking the same as me? It was great to see Sam Hutchinson starting a game, of course, and I hoped that Romelu Lukaku would shine in a central location. Over in the far corner, there were more Blackburn fans that I had actually expected; maybe around 400. There was the predictable “Venky Scum Out” banner.

The planned applause in honour of Didier Drogba’s (possible…probable?) last ever game at The Bridge on eleven minutes was pretty disappointing. It only really got going at around the 11 minutes 45 seconds mark. I had to explain it to the lads in front. To be honest, bearing in mind that we were only six days away from the joint second biggest game in 107 years, the atmosphere was surprisingly quiet. I spotted many empty seats all around the stadium. Even after the two well taken goals around the half-hour mark, the place remained docile. Maybe everyone was saving themselves for Munich.

They were two nice goals. A great cross from Lukaku was headed in by John Terry. A strong dribble, away from the goal line – confusing us all – by Michael Essien resulted in the ball being tee’d up for Raul Meireles to toe-poke in. This was yet another goal that I was right in line of. Amongst these two goals, there was the usual exchange between Alan and myself, said in a broad Lancastrian burr, that “they will have to come at us now” and the usual “come on my little diamonds” response. Let’s hope we will be saying this in a German accent next Saturday.

On the TV screen at The Shed End, the tickertape-style updates from other games seemed to be the centre of attention for us all. It seemed that all was quiet and calm at The Bridge, while there was a maelstrom of activity taking place all around us. I likened it to be in the eye of the storm, with other clubs and other issues whirring around in every direction. Blackburn Rovers were already relegated. We were guaranteed a sixth place finish. Two other games were dominating our thoughts – the ones involving the two Manchester teams.

United 1-0 up. Drat.

City drawing.

Arsenal losing. Always good.

City 1-0 up. Good. This might mean QPR will get relegated.

Stoke 1-0 up.

And so it continued. Every five minutes or so, our attention would drift up to the south-east corner as scores were updated. There was genuine shock and then sadness when the news came through that QPR had not only equalized at Eastlands but had miraculously gone 2-1 up. And with ten men. FFS.

Poor old City. What a way to lose it. Always in their shadows. Remember when they won the league in 1968? On the following Wednesday, United won the European Cup. Always in their shadows. Would they ever recover from this?

Down on the pitch, chances were at a premium, but we let Blackburn back in the game when JT was out jumped by Dann, before Yakuba stooped to get a finishing touch. Lukaku had been replaced by Didier Drogba, who was roundly applauded as he entered the fray. What a talisman he has been for us since his arrival from Marseille in 2004. Ramires then hit the bar with a delicate chip. In the last minute, Didier swung in a corner and Sturridge – as frustrating as ever – decided to chest rather than head the ball in from close range.

To be honest, this was a mediocre performance, but nobody was too bothered. I noted with interest that both Torres and Drogba were on the pitch for the last segment. Was RDM thinking along the same lines as me for Munich? It seemed that every part of my being was focusing on the game at the Allianz Arena.

So, the final whistle and the season had finished. Bolton were relegated; no more visits to The Reebok (2005 and all that) for a year or two perhaps. Wins for Arsenal and Spurs had provided them with top four finishes. Well, for Arsenal, anyway. Tottenham needs an asterisk next to it. I was gutted that United had pipped their neighbours to the title. In this amazing season, City had beaten United twice. Their players had lit up the season.They had surely deserved the title. Yet, typical City; just like them to mess up right at the end. The Chelsea players disappeared down the tunnel and I sensed an air of anti-climax. In preparation for a lengthy lap of honour by the playing staff, I disappeared out into the toilets.

And then – a roar.

A mate joked “don’t say City have won 3-2!”

Within a split second, another fan blurted out – “City have won 3-2.”

Well, I erupted with a smile and raced back to see Alan and Jake. City may not be everyone’s cup of tea and I suppose we should be worried that their league title will entice further stars to join their “project” but I for one was very pleased. At last, City managed to trump United – and how. The news of the two injury time goals filtered through and I was transported straight away to Eastlands (hysteria) and the Stadium of Light (mysery), trying to even imagine what the supporters of those two bitter rivals would be experiencing. Give me the City fans and their self-deprecating wit and gallows humour over United’s glory-hunting legions of non-attendees any day of the week.

Good old City.

It seemed that the majority of the Chelsea crowd was in agreement. There would have been no roar had United come from behind in such a manner to defeat City. Just a gnawing pain. I immediately relished the chance to witness the frame-by-frame coverage of the games in Manchester and Sunderland on “MOTD2” when I would reach home later that evening.

But now, it was time for the Chelsea supporters to thank the Chelsea players and management team for their sterling efforts over the past three months. We all love these end-of-season laps of honour. A fair few fans, though, had decided to leave, but I was relieved that most stayed behind. I snapped away as the players and their children slowly strolled around the pitch. The wives and girlfriends watched on from in front of the players’ tunnel; designer handbags and huge Sophia Loren sunglasses to the fore.

First, the triumphant boys with the F.A. Youth Cup, victors against Blackburn Rovers. Not their day, was it?

Then, Neil Barnett introduced Roy Bentley to the crowd; now walking with a stick, but still a joy. After a hug from John Terry, he lapped up the applause cascading down from all four stands. One minute, he was using his walking stick as a conductor’s baton, the next as a snooker cue, the next as a golf club. What a character. Proper Chelsea. The first of the players’ children to raise a cheer were Georgie and Summer; JT’s twins raced towards the near goal and continually scored goals, pushing the balls past the line. Petr Cech’s son was next up and the look of determination on his face was fantastic. Over in the distance, Ramires Junior seemed to be dwarfed by the matchball. Frank’s children were more subdued. On the walk past, everyone was smiling, everyone was applauding the fans. Didier waved to someone in the West Stand and I wondered if it was Gill. Fernando posed with his children at The Shed End goalmouth, enabling the doting fans in the lower tier to take some photographs. I wonder if he knows that I have big plans for him in Munich?

Rather embarrassingly, Neil Barnett suddenly appeared with the F.A. Cup and he hurriedly presented it to Roberto di Matteo. With the focus on next Saturday, had the club simply forgot to schedule the F.A. Cup as part of the day’s proceedings?

The microphone was then thrust into John Terry’s hands and he thanked the fans with a few words.

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“Frew the ups and the dans…”

As with Wembley the previous weekend, I was one of the last to leave the stadium. We stopped for a refreshing drink in The Goose and then headed home. It was a glorious English evening, the sun slowly fading, the shadows lengthening and the music on the CD player stirring my senses.

“Don’t turn this way, don’t turn that way.
Straight down the middle until next Thursday.
Reverse to the left, then back to the right.
Twist and turn till you’ve got it right.
Get the balance right.
Get the balance right.”

I said my goodbyes – for the current season – to Parky and Jake. It has been a tumultuous ten months. We will need to raise ourselves for one last time, for one massive challenge, for one ultimate goal and for one final push. Just like Manchester United in 1968, we need to steal the thunder from Manchester City by winning the biggest prize of all.

Five days and counting…

Tales From The Unbeaten Run

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 30 April 2011.

Another amazing game, another wonderful day in London, another busy day with friends. If there is a slight chance that these days, these games and these match reports get to sound eerily similar and contain the same happy themes, I for one will only be too glad. It would be churlish for anyone to complain. Chelsea Football Club – or, at least this current team – continue to surprise me with their spirit and determination. Who knows where this will end this season? Just two weeks ago, we travelled to West Brom with no thoughts of the title. Now – who knows?

Admittedly, we got two massive pieces of luck against Tottenham, but we were due our little piece of good fortune.

The Journey.

Just outside of Frome, I dropped in to a farm shop and bought a few pints – in a clear plastic container – of Somerset Scrumpy for Michigan JR, who had expressed an interest in this lethal drink last week against West Ham. Soon after, I collected Lord Parky at just after 10am and it was a perfect drive in. We commented that we could hardly believe that there were only four games left in 2010-2011. The time has flown by these past few weeks. The end is in sight, damn it. The skies were lovely and clear. A slight breeze. Not so much traffic. Good vibes. We briefly discussed the team and possible formation. We wondered if Carlo would go with a 4–4–2 and employ Ramires wide right to counter the threat of Gareth Bale. However, 4-4-3 has worked these past two weeks, so big decisions for Carlo.

The Music.

New Order from 2001 and The Killers from 2004.

Lloyds.

We were parked-up at a quiet Chesson Road at bang on midday. With five-and-a-half hours to go until kick-off, we were well ahead of the game. Just as well, we had lots to do. You know how it is. We raced down to Fulham Broadway and met up with some friends from North America. Beth was there with Dave from Toronto (formerly from Essex) but also the lovely Texas JR – and his wife, Grace – from San Antonio. JR is the elder statesman of CIA and is well respected. I brought ten old Chelsea programmes, dating from as far back as 1947, to show the guests from across the pond. JR was lapping it up, commenting on former players Roy Bentley and Len Goulden. Next to arrive was Ben (nuhusky13) from Boston, via Poughkeepsie, along with Steve and Darren Mantle. A big welcome to him; this would be his first ever game at The Bridge after arriving on Friday. He was clearly buzzing and it was lovely to feel his enthusiasm. Steve and Darren had a treat for him – they went off to find Dave Johnstone and help realign some of the match day flags and banners which give The Bridge such a distinctive feel.

The veterans from last week, Anna, Dennis and JR, then arrived and joined us for a few drinks. I don’t often go into Lloyds, but it’s not a bad place. Lloyds is just one of the 25 or so pubs and bars which are within a 15 minute walk from the stadium. We’re pretty lucky with respect to that. Lots of cafes and restaurants too – many have gone upmarket of late, but that’s typical of England.

Ben came back to join us and he had another Stella. However, I was concerned that we needed to move on. I gathered the troops and we set off.

The Hotel.

Thankfully, we just managed to grab a few special moments with Ron Harris in the hotel bar. I took a couple of photographs of Ben with Chopper and then sat down beside them briefly. Ben is a fellow Yankee fan and I had been wearing my NYY cap. I placed it down on the table in front of us.

“There you go Ben. You’ve made it to Stamford Bridge. You’re sat next to Ron Harris and there’s a Yankee cap right in front of you.”

Ben quickly replied – “It would be better if Chopper was wearing the Yankee cap.”

Everyone laughed and – for a split second, I toyed with the idea of getting Ron to put it on. I quickly decided against it. I slipped off to the bar and left Ben to chat with Chopper. I’m not sure what was said, but I am sure Ben has some extra special memories of those five minutes. Again, he repeated the comment that “this just wouldn’t happen” in America. It would be like myself sitting down next to Yogi Berra for a quick natter at my first ever Yankees game.

“Yogi – hiya, mate. I’ve got this Chelsea cap…”

We met Gill and Graeme again – always a pleasure – and then we just happened to be at the right place at the right time as Kerry Dixon arrived downstairs. Another photograph with Ben. Lucky boy. Just before we left the hotel, Hilario appeared and posed for a photo with Gill. It was now 3.15pm and we needed to move on again.

The Pelican.

Parky, Michigan JR, Ben and myself slipped down to another boozer, The Pelican, positioned halfway between the Fulham and Kings Roads. I had arranged to meet my good pal Pete – from San Francisco – who I first met at the Chelsea vs. Bluewings game in LA in 2007. Sadly, Pete lost his father last week and I just wanted to personally pass on my condolences. I needed to make a phone call, so just popped outside for a split second. I looked up and saw the face of an old mate, Roger, suddenly appear. I used to work with Rog about 15 years ago in Trowbridge and we went to a few games together. I had lost contact with him and – get this – he presumed I had stopped going. What a lovely moment. He was on his way to The Imperial but spent ten minutes with me, catching up. He now lives down in Exmouth. Great to see him.

In Chelsealand, it’s never a small world.

The Goose.

We eventually made it to The Goose at 4pm and I was just happy to have completed my circuit. Another Coke, photos with Ben and JR in the packed beer garden, chat with the boys. The usual mix of replica shirts for some, designer gear for others. None of my mates were wearing The Crocodile – Lord Parky in a black Fred Perry, myself in a light orange Boss – but I have to say that I saw many lads sporting the classic polo of Rene Lacoste on this most summery of days. Even after all these years – in football circles, 1981 to date – there is nothing like the sumptuous quality of a Crocodile.

Ben was now in Chelsea Heaven, sipping on another Stella. A quick chat with Neil about baseball – Mickey Mantle, no relation of Steve and Daz, I guess – just to make him feel at home.

Good times.

No – the greatest of times.

Let’s just take a moment to reflect.

A sunny day in London. In the beer garden with ten or so of my very best mates. Lads I can trust and rely on. Mates who share a common bond, but also the same sense of humour, the same outlook on life, the same joy of sharing our friendships with others. Six years ago to the day, we were all together at Bolton watching our beloved club of illustrious underachievers, much maligned for decades, finally put the ghosts of 1955 behind us and lift the League title once again. On the day that our captain, derided by many, loved by us, would be playing his 500th first-team game. Ah, these are good times. Don’t let the nay-sayers tell you otherwise.

I walked JR and Ben down to the Fulham Broadway at about 4.45pm and pointed them in the direction of HQ. Fulham Broadway – formerly Walham Green, to give it the former name – is our own little Piccadilly Circus and Times Square rolled in to one. It’s where five roads converge and it’s where I watched on with joyous glee as our 1997 and 2000 F.A. Cup victories were gloriously celebrated. It’s where thousands of Chelsea fans alighted at the old red-brick tube station and then imbibed gallons and gallons of beer and spirits at the immediate vicinity’s three or four pubs. From there on in, the Fulham Road is closed to thru-traffic and you get a real sense of place walking past the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall and the CFCUK stand to the right, Bob the T-Shirt’s stall to the left, Chubby’s Grill to the right. Fanzines and scarves, charity collections, voices, songs, laughter.

There had been rumours of a Spurs presence on the North End Road, but nothing materialised. JR had asked me in the pub where away fans drink and I had to tell him that I really didn’t know. Up by Earls Court, maybe. As I approached the West stand, I realised that I hadn’t seen a single Spurs fan all day.

No last minute downpour this week.

I reached my seat at 5.15pm. Not a cloud in the skies. A very slight breeze. Chelsea weather. A bloody perfect day.

Neil Barnett spoke of the anniversary of the 2005 title – with a few pointed barbs aimed at the away fans, 1961 and all that – in the far corner and the two Lampard goals were shown on the big screens. Surprisingly, the crowd didn’t really react and this saddened me.

“Oh God – I hope we are up for it today. This is Tottenham. Nothing else matters.”

Zoom lens out, I tried to locate Ben, JR, Beth and co, but no luck.

The teams were announced and I took a few moments attempting to work out if we were going back to a 4-4-2.

The Game.

We began brightly, but the first real chance fell to Pavlyuchenko, who shot wide after Ivanovic slipped. Didier, playing wide it seemed, played in Frank but his shot was deflected wide for a corner. I took a photo of Didier about to slam a viciously dipping free-kick which slammed against the bar from a good 35 yards out. Gomes got a touch, but only just. However, a little bout of tardy marking from a throw-in presented Sandro the ball and he unleashed an unstoppable effort which crashed past Petr Cech. As the ball dropped down inside the net, I could hardly believe it. The away team ran off to celebrate with the Spurs management team and it was a hideous sight.

“OK – let’s keep going. We have ages to equalise. Keep calm.”

Fernando Torres, playing in a variety of central positions – sometimes in the hole, sometimes on the shoulder of the last man, sometimes in the channels – was full of energy and seemed revitalised after his goal last week. Some of his passing was sublime. However, a lot of the balls needed him to be on the end of…

Essien headed over and, from the corner which followed, a glancing header from Drogba bounced up at Torres, who could not react quick enough and headed over from close in.

“Oh when the Spurs…”

On 34 minutes, a lovely shimmy from a rampaging Ivanovic fooled the entire 41,000 but his brave run into the box was snuffed out. Yet again – despite tons of possession – we appeared to be over-passing and the crowd were again restless. After a bright half an hour, Torres was now quiet. With the half-time break approaching, the ball broke to Lampard.

“Go on Frank – shoot.”

Thankfully, he took my advice and hit a low swerving shot straight at Gomes. The Spurs ‘keeper, always prone to horrendous gaffs, did not stop the ball and it seemed to go through him. Despite a desperate lunge to keep the ball from crossing the line, the crowd were up and celebrating, claiming the goal.

Time stood still.

I looked at the linesman, who didn’t seem to be doing anything. The Chelsea players seemed to be hounding the referee. What was going on? I wasn’t sure, but there was a sudden roar from the Chelsea fans. A massive sigh. We’ll take it.

Amazingly, Malouda was through – one on one – just after but couldn’t connect. As the players strode off at the break, the home fans were baiting the Tottenham ‘keeper, with echoes of chant with which we serenaded David Seaman in 1995 –

“Let’s all do the Gomes” (with flailing arms).

The texts had arrived at the break to say that the goal hadn’t completely crossed the line. Oh well – even better! After the World Cup debacle in the summer, Fat Frank was entitled to a little luck.

As the Spurs ‘keeper took his place in front of the baying Matthew Harding Stand at the commencement of the second period, the Chelsea fans applauded him wildly and he looked bemused…or confused. I don’t know – the bloke looks flustered and confused all the time if you ask me.

Another bludgeoning run from Ivanovic caused problems for the Spurs defence, but he was stopped short with a decidedly dodgy tackle. I took another photograph of a Drogba free-kick from way out and this one again dipped. This was straight at the nervous Gomes, but he just stuck out his hands and never really attempted to save it “properly.” The ball bounced down, but nobody could get on the end of it. We sensed Gomes’ fear and we wanted his blood.

“Let’s all do the Gomes.”

Ramires on for Essien. Maybe a knock, but happy with Ramires joining the fray.

On the hour, the Chelsea crowd – at last – sang as one and the noise roared around The Bridge.

“Carefree – Wherever you may be. We are the famous CFC.”

Torres, jinking here and there, such lovely close control, was looking good, so it was a shock to see him replaced by Kalou.

I had a feeling that the referee had been told that the Chelsea goal “wasn’t” during the break and so would be loath to reward us any 50-50 decisions in the second period. On 68 minutes, we broke into the penalty area – contact.

But no penalty.

The Bridge – me included – was incensed. We howled and howled.

I remained confident that the goal would come. I was nervous that Jermaine Defoe came on as a Spurs substitute and I was hoping that Modric would not feed him. However, Spurs rarely threatened Pet’s goal in that second-half and we continued our assault on Gomes’ goal. A Lampard shot flew wide after nice interplay between Didier and Nico, now on as a substitute.

The clock was ticking.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A move down below me and we suddenly had extra blue shirts everywhere. We watched on as the ball was played in to Didier and he had his typical run with the ball – shielding it well. Anelka made a move, but almost got in Didier’s way…oh boy! Thankfully, Didier remained in control of the ball and sent the ball in to the six yard box.

An outstretched leg – Kalou – and the ball was played into the goal. The ball hit the back of the net – what a gorgeous sight – and The Bridge went wild.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Such noise. Such joy. Tottenham – we’ve done you again! I picked up my camera and snapped the Chelsea players down below me. The expressions on their faces were euphoric. David Luiz was screaming with ecstasy. A lone Chelsea fan raced across and jumped on Frank Lampard. The celebrations continued, but the stewards were now trying to get the fan off the pitch. Luiz and Lampard pleaded with the stewards to be lenient with the fan – there was obviously no malice – and were doing their level best to calm the fan down, too.

Calm down? Easier said than done.

Alan – “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris – “Come on my little diamonds.”

Down below, three rows in front of me, Big John began banging the metal hoarding of the MH balcony and the whole Matthew Harding, and then what seemed the entire ground joined in.

“BANG BANG – CLAP CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – CHELSEA.”

The final whistle and we were bouncing. Another Chelsea win over Spurs at The Bridge. Lovely, lovely stuff.

The Chelsea PA played the new crowd favourite “One Step Beyond” and for a minute or so we all bounced along…as it played out, the last bars fading, we were left with the sound of the Matthew Harding singing, deep, resonant, defiant…to the sound of “Tom Hark.”

“We hate Tottenham, we hate Tottenham, we hate Tottenham, we hate Tottenham.”

I spotted JT, his 500th game over, and he was caught up in the moment. Screaming at us – screaming with joy.

Smiles all over my face at the end – “see you at Old Trafford, Al” – and my immediate thoughts were with young Ben, over there in the Shed Lower. I really wondered if he was still in orbit. I bounced down the Fulham Road and Big Pete told me that Kalou’s goal was offside.

“Even better. Happy days.”

Back at the car, I handed over the container of Scrumpy to JR and I realised that he had just enjoyed a week that he would never ever forget. He took a swig of the potent, smoky brew and said –

“Wow.”

Wow indeed.

The Journey Home.

We pulled out of Chesson Road at 8pm and Parky could hardly speak. What a fantastic week it has been. A coffee stop at Heston and some Stranglers for the rest of the journey home. Since 1990, we have now played Tottenham at home in the league on 21 occasions and we have remained undefeated in every single one of them.

1990 to 2011 – and so it goes on.

I reached home at 10.45pm just in time to see the “Match of the Day” team dismissive of our 4-3-3 shape and apoplectic about our two goals.

You know what? I couldn’t care less.

Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 16 March 2011.

Ah, the 16th of March – a momentous date in my life.

Our game with Copenhagen coincided with the 37th anniversary of my first ever Chelsea game. Ironically, our defeat at the hands of Inter last season was on the same date – but I was pretty confident that a similar fate would not befall Chelsea in 2011. In fact, I had hardly thought about the game against Gronkjaer and co – yet another game that had snuck in under the radar.

I took a half day holiday as I had just about had my fill of stressful sorties up the M4 motorway for midweek games. As it happened, this was a very fortuitous move. At around 4pm, with His Lordship alongside me, I received a text from Bristol Tim on the M4. It seemed that there had been a major snarl-up around Maidenhead and that the eastbound motorway would be closed until 6.15pm. I contemplated my options and took the A34 down to the A303 and headed in on the M3.

From my home in Somerset, I had headed north to collect Parky, then east towards Hungerford, north to the M4, east towards Newbury, and then I took that well-timed diversion south to the A303, then east again to the M25 and eventually north to the M4 and then finally east towards HQ. My route to Stamford Bridge had mirrored an elongated Pat Nevin dribble. A bit like that famous one against The Geordies in 1983, maybe.

With much pleasure, we stumbled into The Goose at 5.45pm – my journey had grown to 141 miles, but I could relax. Tim, however, was still struggling to get in and was still stuck on the M4.

We spent a lovely 90 minutes in the pub, chatting and looking forward to possible venues for “the last eight.” One of our topics of conversation – and consternation – was the price of the game…my ticket had cost me £57. That’s a lot of money for a tie which, hopefully, was already won in Denmark. But what can we do? Maybe one day, I’ll resist. To be fair, Rob had looked at the price and had resisted. However, he made it in from Essex for the pre-match banter (which is what 75% of “Chelsea” is anyway, let’s be honest) and then had plans to disappear off to The Imperial to watch the game on the box. I respected his opinion – he had paid ?50 to fly to Copenhagen for the first leg, but had really felt disgusted about paying more for his own seat at The Bridge. I was left with explicit instructions for me to text him my guestimate of the crowd.

In our little corner, surrounded by familiar faces, it was a typical scene.

Smiles and laughter, groans at shocking puns, pints of Carling, mobile phones being checked for messages, friends arriving, faces noted, talk of past games, the Blackpool post-game party and the inevitable hangovers, Barbour jackets, pints of Fosters, new pullovers, shrieks from the far corner, friends from far off places, the excitement of the imminent draw, “get the beers in Parky”, more tales from Blackpool, plans for Stoke away, Russell’s new job, “mind yer backs”, more beers, blokes in work clothes, shared memories of distant fashions and distant games, Bayern Munich away, Juventus two years ago, the classic moments relived one more time, lads in Adidas trainers, “one more beer”, tangled conversations, jokes, banter, football.

Inside the stadium, it soon became apparent that fewer people than we had expected had resisted the game. All areas, with the exception of the very back rows of the East Upper and the upper corners of the West Stand were full of spectators. Of course, the three thousand away fans were in early and were making the expected din. I suspect that they had been on the Carlsberg all day. Alan had met a couple in The Imperial and he reported that they were buzzing. Their balcony was covered in club banners and flags. Throughout the game, they did themselves proud. Lots of noise. Balloons when the two teams entered the pitch. Lots of planned and choreographed waving of scarves and bizarre hand-jives…lots of singing, lots of fun.

It was back to the CL style programme – white cover, spine – for this game. The programme seller gave me an extra one and I noted a photo of Gill and Graeme inside.

Carlo was testing the 4-4-2 once more and I was a little surprised to see Fernando Torres on the bench.

We had a reasonably well observed moment’s silence in memory of the poor souls who lost their lives in Japan and then the MH serenaded John Terry with the much-loved –

“One England Captain.”

The game?

We couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo.

We couldn’t hit a donkey’s arse with a saucepan.

We couldn’t hit a chef’s arse with a soup ladle.

We couldn’t hit a spaceman’s arse with a ukulele.

We couldn’t hit a red-headed Bourbon Street floozie’s arse with a trombone.

We couldn’t hit Peter Piper’s arse with a peck of pickled peppers.

We couldn’t hit a banjo’s arse with a cow.

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fcuking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fcuking Danish, why don’t you speak fcuking Danish?”

The Danes also gave many rousing renditions of the theme from “The Great Escape” too. Generally speaking though, we were subdued and were only roused intermittently. As I looked around to check on the gaps in the seats, I spotted a few more American flags…notably those from Southern California, Austin and the Bay Area. Good work.

It was enjoyable to see Jesper Gronkjaer once again. He was a bit of an enigma was Jesper, to say the least. He had blistering pace, but the end product was usually woeful. We ought to name The Shed roof after him, since a high proportion of his crosses ended up heading towards it. Whenever he received the ball, loads of us would often shout “Run Forrest.”

And he usually did.

He had a peculiar running style too, as though his upper body was in a different plane to his legs. His arms tended to move sideways.

We carved out plenty of chances in the game, of course…a few early chances including one for Yuri with the entire goal begging, a Drogba curler which was well saved, a great deep cross from Bosingwa which was volleyed wide by Didier, a couple of Anelka one-on-ones wasted, a Ramires strike saved, some head tennis in the six yard box and a Mikel header hitting the bar, a strong run from the substitute Torres and a deft flick, a deflected Torres shot and an Essien blast saved.

The pick of the bunch though, was a nonchalant shot from Didier which ballooned about fifteen yards in the air and went off for a throw-in down below the TV studio in the NE corner.

Oh boy.

Overall, I thought Drogba and Anelka played two far apart, especially in the first-half. They need to work on their partnership and that can’t be done when they are so distant. The midfield did not really support the front two that well…I have the impression that Carlo advised the team to play within themselves and not overly exert themselves. I can see the reasons for that. Despite the 25 shots on goal, the mood was of frustration amongst the Chelsea faithful, though. Torres looked sharp…I keep saying it…the goals will come. Copenhagen didn’t really threaten too much, but of course the free-kick which rattled our woodwork certainly gave us a scare early on.

As I left the stadium, there were murmurs of discontent, but it only took me a few sobering moments to remember March 16th. 2010 and I was just glad that had made it into the final eight. Carlo’s pragmatism over wild adventure had succeeded and we all eagerly await the draw on Friday.

On the drive home, I contemplated the draw options while listening to a few Spurs fans on “606.” They were just too full of themselves and I’m just dreading our two names to be drawn together in the quarters. Looking ahead, I am hoping to travel to any venue apart from Donetsk. I have visited all of the other six stadia over the years, though I haven’t seen a game at Real Madrid. As I missed out on the trip to the San Siro in 1999 and 2010, a game against Inter would be my personal favourite, though a return trip to the grimy industrial town of Gelsenkirchen would not be a problem either.

On Sunday, let’s beat City.

Tales From The Shed Lower

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 1 March 2011.

At work in the morning, I had a little chat with one of my work colleagues, a Manchester United fan.

“If you’re involved in the loading of the vehicles today, I want everything done sharpish as I have an evening’s entertainment to attend.”

“Oh, you’re playing tonight are you? Who against?”

“Uh – yeah. You may have heard of them. From Salford. Play in red.”

The penny dropped, and he was full of embarrassment.

Such is the way with United fans, all the world over I guess.

With my workload eventually completed, I left Chippenham at just after 4.30pm and I could relax a little. For once, I was travelling alone. Parky had taken the “slow boat to China” option and had travelled up by coach. Due to concerns about getting away on time, I had warned him that I might be away late. On Monday, for example, I didn’t leave until 6.15pm. A repeat would mean that I would be trapped in rush-hour traffic and would be unlikely to reach The Bridge until half-time. So, Parky caught a coach at 11.30am and eventually reached Earls Court at 3.30pm. By the time I was leaving Chippenham, he was probably on his third pint in The Goose.

As I drove past the Griffin Park floodlights at around 6pm, I switched over to listen to the sports bulletin on the radio. Carlo Ancelotti confirmed that Drogba and Torres would both take part in the game against United, though he didn’t say if both would be starting. After a delay getting in to London, I eventually walked into The Goose at 7pm. Parky was especially glad to see me as it meant that he wouldn’t have to wait around for the 2am return coach trip. James (zippy) from Kansas City had been in touch during the build up to the game and I had pointed him in the direction of The Goose, Parky and the rest of The Bing. He had enjoyed the pre-match hospitality and it looked like a good time had been shared. I took a couple of swigs from Parky’s pint and we were soon on our way up the North End Road. There was a chill in the air but our jackets kept out the cold.

Chelsea versus Manchester United. The Blues versus the Reds. The South versus the North. The Good Guys versus the Forces of Darkness. I have been lucky enough to attend every single one of the last twenty Chelsea vs. Manchester United league games at The Bridge and, of course, there are tons of memories. Our last defeat against them at home was way back in 2002 – we have certainly held the advantage in recent years.

For a change, I had a seat in The Shed Lower – not far from where Lord Parky resides – and I found myself near James, too. Luckily, there was a spare seat next to him, so I soon sat alongside. Our seats were just three rows from the back of the lower tier near the SW corner flag, underneath the overhang. If my memory serves, the last five rows were originally part of an enclosed corporate area when the stand was built in 1997. To be quite honest, the seats were cramped and the overhang gave a claustrophobic feel to the area. I’d hate to watch from there every game – Shed or no Shed. I longed for my usual perch, way up in the Matthew Harding wraparound. However, I had my camera at the ready – as ever – and I was preparing myself for plenty of shots from a different angle for a change.

I had only ever visited the Shed Lower on two other occasions. Ironically, on the fifth anniversary of the passing of the legendary Peter Osgood, I was reminded of that emotional Sunday in October 2006 when I attended The King’s memorial service, including the burial of his ashes at The Shed End penalty spot. Everyone who was there will remember the rain shower during the service, but then the sky lighting up with sun just before the casket was taken to its final resting place. I watched, with quiet and stony-faced reverence, on that saddest of days, from around Gate 5 in the Shed Lower. Then, in May 2007, I was back in the same corner for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United encounter. I took Judy’s boy James – a United follower – along for that one and it was a bitter-sweet experience…we had just relinquished our title to a resurgent United and so we had to give them a guard of honour as they entered the pitch. To be honest, both teams put out B teams and it ended 0-0. It was enjoyable, though, to be able to share my passion for Chelsea with James and he certainly got a kick out of seeing United up close. We had the last laugh, of course, later that month…F.A. Cup winners against United at the new Wembley.

Back to 2011 and all of those United memories evaporated in the noise as the teams entered the Stamford Bridge pitch.

This was here, this was now. Let’s go to work.

Being so low down, I immediately found the viewing position very frustrating. I spent the first few minutes acclimatising myself to my new surroundings. Having been tuned to see Chelsea in a standard 4-3-3 for the past six years, it took me a while to work out if Florent Malouda was the third striker or out wide in a flat 4-4-2. I think it took me all of the game to work it out and, even by the time he was subbed deep into the second-half, I still hadn’t sussed it.

I thought we began brightly and had the majority of the early ball. Fernando Torres was finding himself in lots of good positions and his movement and enthusiastic play was good to see. He seemed to especially enjoy drifting into the space out in that wide area in front of me, and I was transfixed with the way we worked the ball between Torres, Ramires and Ivanovic. It certainly was fantastic to be so close to the action. I snapped away as Branislav, in particular, sent balls into the area. Soon into the game, Anelka sent a ball in to the area from the inside-right berth, only for Malouda to fluff his shot, hitting it straight at Van De Sar. This sort of finishing was often repeated in the first quarter.

After our left-back’s stupidity at the training ground, the Matthew Harding was shouting “shoot” every time he touched the ball. What Ashley thought of this is not known, thank heavens.

Midway through the first period, I spotted Roy Bentley, no more than thirty feet away from me, sitting in the last remaining part of the old corporate area. As The Shed Lower curves around to the West Stand, there is one little private box left – and I got the impression that there were a few players’ wives and partners sat alongside Roy. Despite this being the hottest of tickets, most of the seats in the area were unused.

Then United’s presence grew and dominated the rest of the first-half. Paul Scholes, that old warhorse, was repeating his performance at last summer’s Community Shield, sitting deep and sliding other players in. Our midfield was giving United far too much respect and space and the frustration amongst the nearby home support rose. Rooney headed over on twenty minutes and a cross from Nani screamed across our six yard box soon after. Then, calamity. We backed off as Rooney was allowed to turn and, from about twenty-five yards out, drill a superbly accurate shot into Cech’s goal.

Silence. Not just from the Chelsea support, but for a split second, from the United support too. But then, rather than being subjected to the triumphal roar that I am used to hearing from the away fans, instead there was an eerily muffled noise. I looked over to my right, above the heads of silent Chelsea fans, to the lower tier of the away section. I saw a forest of pumping arms and joyous faces, but – quire bizarrely – the overhang of the top tier and the thousand or so Chelsea fans had acted as noise insulation and the United fans’ obvious roar was ridiculously quiet. What a strange feeling. I’ll be honest, from my position in that cramped corner, I hardly heard a United song throughout the entire game, though I am sure they were in good voice. I suspect that they went through their usual repertoire. The Chelsea support responded with a ditty which amused James; I guess he hadn’t heard it before…

“Live round the corner, you only live round the corner.”

United were in their pomp and our midfield was missing. Frank Lampard and Michael Essien were so poor as to be not worth comment. The moans continued and our support quickly waned. Then, bizarrely, we upped the tempo briefly in the last few minutes of the half and an amazing chance fell to Ivanovic after a goalmouth scramble from a free-kick. From my position, the ball seemed to hang in the air with just the slightest touch required to send the ball over the line, an open goal at his mercy, but the ball didn’t go in. The ball was hacked away amid absolute astonishment from all of us. Astounding. We needed an action replay – “what happened???”

James and I met up with Lord Parky in the crowded area below the seats at half-time and the mood wasn’t great. We wanted Carlo to change something – the shape, the system, something. We weren’t sure what needed to be done – we just hoped for the best. I feared further United goals and humiliation.

Well, what a second-half. Our appetite was noticeably different and our midfield – at last! – pressed United at every opportunity. We grew with each passing minute and the home support grew louder with each thunderous tackle, each rampaging run, each towering header. Every man stepped up and it was a joy to watch.

David Luiz, one of the brighter elements in that staid first half, gave a truly unforgettable performance. He was full of enthusiasm, full of dashing runs, full of character and energy. He made a few reckless tackles to be honest, and he needs to watch that, but the Chelsea crowd immediately warmed to him. Then – his defining moment. From a cross on 54 minutes, the ball was played back to the waiting Brazilian and he slammed the ball into the United net.

What a deafening roar accompanied that strike from Luiz. After riding our luck in that first-half, we were level. With that, we had a lovely spell and our players sensed the chance to dominate a clearly troubled United team. Our defence was supremely marshalled by John Terry and we limited United to just a few chances. On the hour, Carlo changed things and brought on Didier for Anelka. Fresh blood. However, after giving Luiz the slip, Rooney (the target for much abuse from the home support) broke and I feared the worse. I watched, on tenterhooks, as he dribbled closer to Cech and struck a ball which thankfully sailed wide of the far post. On other occasions, Cech’s hands were thoroughly dependable.

The game continued and what a great game it was, full of tempo and pace. The tackles grew fiercer and fiercer. Ramires was everywhere, Torres was running the channels and Drogba was leading the line. Carlo replaced Malouda with Zhirkov and our spritely Russian was soon in the thick of it.

Was it a penalty? I wasn’t so sure. Watching from 100 yards away, it looked like Yuri just ran into the United defender, but to our absolute joy, Martin Atkinson pointed to the spot.

Oh you beauty.

With my camera poised, I zoned in on Frank Lampard. He placed the ball on the spot. Snap. He nervously pulled up his shorts. Snap. He approached the ball and struck. Snap.

In that split second between me taking the photo and pulling the camera away from my eye, I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on the flight of the ball, so I just waited for the roar.

There was a roar.

We were 2-1 up.

Screams, shouts, arms thrust skywards, hugs with a stranger to my left and with James to my right. What a joyous moment. We grew even stronger, United went to pieces.

In the closing moments, the substitute Ryan Giggs came over to take a corner, no further than ten yards from me. I took a few photographs. I have a lot of time for Giggs – a tremendous player and, surprisingly, a United player who is not loathed and hated by the non-United section of the football fraternity . This was his 606th league game for United. This therefore tied the United record with Bobby Charlton, whose last ever game for United (yes, you guessed it, at The Bridge in 1973…a game I remember seeing on TV, if only for a comical Ossie goal) was featured in the night’s programme.

Alex came on for David Luiz – one Brazilian for another – and Luiz was given a fantastic reception. And still the tackles thundered in. I could see someone getting sent off and, after a couple of rash challenges, Nemanja Vidic was ordered off. Oh boy –it gets better. Of course, the absolute dream ending to this great game would have been El Nino’s last minute shot going in rather than being blocked.

At the final whistle, a huge roar and the PA immediately played “One Step Beyond.” The Bridge was bouncing and nobody wanted to leave. James, thousands of miles from his home in Kansas and over for one game only, was in heaven. We met up with Lord Parky and I could see he was dewy-eyed.

Chelsea does that to you, you know.

With that, Danny and Mike from the New York chapter suddenly appeared and there were more smiles and hugs.

We sauntered – yes, that’s a good word – through the masses of jubilant Chelsea fans on the Fulham Road and the London night was full of Chelsea songs. Danny and Mike disappeared off to a pub – “see you at Blackpool”- but we needed to get home. The resurgence in our play during that excellent second period surely augurs well for the rest of the season. Carlo is in the middle of a testing spell as he needs to plan his assault on the Champions League campaign this year, but he also needs to look to the future and change the personnel for the new season, too. Let’s push on now and see where this team can take us. As we battled the crowds, I told Parky that a third-place finish in the league this year is well within our capabilities.

At the intersection of the North End Road and Lillee Road, James and I said our goodbyes. He promised a yearly visit to Chelsea in the years ahead and I look forward to welcoming him back. As he headed off towards West Brompton tube, I’m sure I saw him jump up and click his heels.

It had been a lovely, lovely night.

Tales From The Lily Tandoori

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Internazionale : 16 March 2010.

This was a tough day at work and a tough day at play.

I had booked a half-day holiday and just knew I’d struggle to get everything finished by 1pm. With this in mind, I came in to work early at 7.30am and just wanted to get my head down…try not to think too much about the game…get stuck in. However, the best laid plans of mice and men…when I pulled up at half-seven, Pat Nevin was on the radio, enthusing about the return of Jose Mourinho. I couldn’t escape. It seemed the whole of the UK was waiting for this classic match-up.

For half-an-hour, my head was full of doubts and worries about the game in the evening.

By 8am, work was getting worse…however, the problems I was encountering were at least taking my thoughts away from the match.

By 1pm, I should have left Chippenham.

By 1.30pm I did.

Phew.

I then faced a horrible trip up to London, caught in roadworks and traffic jams. I eventually reached Base Camp, aka The Goose, at just gone 6pm. I gulped down two pints and chatted excitedly to some mates from near and far. I made the point that it was such a big game, it seemed only right that the eventual winners be handed a place in the final, not just the last eight. People were nervous. I wasn’t sure which way it would go.

We walked down to the ground, then split up as we all had seats in various locations. I was sitting in the Shed Upper with Danielle.

Thirty-six years ago to the very day – March 16th 1974 – I had seen Chelsea play for the very first time. What fates would befall me, 700-odd games on?

There was an eery air inside the stadium as I chatted briefly to Danielle before the entrance of the teams. In the pub, my mate Alan had passed me a packet of “European Game Lucky Wine Gums” and had cheekilly commented “there you go son, use them if you need to.”

The Inter fans to our right were singing, but their chants were muffled, with so many home fans standing in the way. I’m sure they appeared louder back in from the Matthew Harding. The teams had been announced, the changes noted. Neil welcomed the Inter management team back to SW6. The CL anthem and the teams walked on to the pitch. A lot of the fans had been given flags and these were waved enthusiastically. For some reason, the cardboard cut-outs in the East Middle were given bar scarves instead. Nobody waved these. Why would they? They just sat like statues the entire game. Danielle and myself matched each other photo for photo. A quick chorus of “Jose Mourinho” and I snapped our former idol wave briefly to the Matthew Harding.

The atmosphere was strange. It seemed tense. In the first twenty minutes, the crowd reached 8/10 noise levels, but quickly faded to the 5/10 of a normal league game.

The first-half rattled by with predominant Chelsea pressure – going nowhere – interspersed with rapid breaks and crosses from Inter. I liked the look of our options down the left, with Malouda and Zhirkov beginning to threaten. I snapped a couple of long-distance photos of Mourinho, gesticulating to his attackers. In one uncanny photo, he appeared to be annointing the famous Lovejoy ( who sits right behind the away dug-out ) – his finger appearing to touch Lovejoy’s head as he stretched out his arm.

We had a couple of half-chances as the first-half ended…shots from Malouda and Anelka painfully blocked.

Just one goal!

What was up? Our approach play was stilted, Frank was playing too deep, Anelka and Drogba were too far apart. There was no intensity. No pace.

The crowd seems to fade away. We tried our best in The Shed – a few songs…I always try – but nothing constant. Nothing like those historic European nights against Bruges, Vicenza, Barcelona and Liverpool. I had my camera to my eye when the Drogba rugby tackle took place and only saw the aftermath, but the shouts of “penalty” from The Shed were testament enough to the vailidity of the claim. Danielle was swearing like a trooper. The frustration rose.

A youth in the seat in front disappeared off for a few minutes as the second-half began. Who is more worried about getting pies and coffees than watching Chelsea in the Champions League?

As he bit into a pie, I bit my lip.

I said to Danielle “in desperate times, come desperate measures” and opened up the wine gums. We needed all the good luck we could muster. After an initial flurry, we couldn’t raise our game to the necessary level. We just couldn’t do it. Ballack was woeful and was replaced by Joe Cole, but he flitted around like a butterfly on the periphery.

No sting.

What a shocking second-half. Our best player by a mile was Malouda, but the manager swutched him to left-back. I don’t understand that. The Inter goal – that fellow Eto’o slamming home from a ball from the impressive Sneider – came as no surprise. Eto’o put us out in 2006 and he did the same, at the same goal, in 2010.

The mood deepened and I sat silent, only rousing myself to sing a couple of defiant songs once Drogba had been sent-off. Many fans left before the end. This report is not dedicated to any of them.

At the whistle, a roar from the Interisti and a song

“Bye bye Carletto – bye bye Carletto.”

I was – what’s the word? – gutted, but I’m used to all this by now. Danielle collected a load of flags to take back to Orange County and I bade her a fond farewell and safe travels.

“You make sure you come back.”

I bumped into a stern Tommy Langley outside the megastore and he was lamenting the poor showing of our big name players. We both agreed that Malouda was the only one who appeared to be on song. Too many stars had gone missing. Outside the Kings Arms, a blockade of police on horseback were guarding several hundred Inter fans who had obviously watched the game on TV in the pub. A few shouts and scuffles. On the walk up the North End Road, I felt sick at the sight of many Chelsea fans smiling and laughing. Where is the hurt you fools? Where is the pain?

I met up with Steve Azar, Mike Neat, Bob Clark and Joe ( from San Antonio – his first ever game ) outside The Goose and we sloped over for a curry at a nearby Indian. Dutch Mick was already eating. A friendly smile from Mick – he’d seen it all before, too. There was a funereal air for the first twenty minutes, but Joe’s high spirits took our mind off the dire game we had sadly witnessed. We devoured our curries and eventually we spoke of the match. No positives. Not this time. We need to refresh the team in the summer. It then dawned on me that my Euro travels were over for another season, but with probably no US Tour either. Further groans. Joe is over for about a week and is soon off to Manchester. I ran through a few tourist options for him. However, when I told him that we would be playing at nearby Blackburn at 4pm on Sunday ( his flight leaves on Monday ), his eyes lit up. In one moment, despite the pain of Mourinho’s return, I had moved on and was making plans for Ewood.

Screw the JCLs and the cluless “fans” who so annoy me. Let’s get myself amongst the 3,000 loyalists.

Blackburn Away – Mow That Meadow.

Tales From Ian Britton’s Homecoming

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 16 January 2010.

With no game last weekend, I was chomping at the bit for the league game with Sunderland. I drove up with Parky and Steve. The snow has almost completely disappeared now. However, instead, I had heavy rain to contend with, which is always tiring.

I was soon parked up at 11.45am and we headed straight into The Goose, which was already getting busy. The rain meant that the beer garden was a no-go area, so we stood, densely-packed inside. The usual suspects, chatting away, the usual designer threads on show.

Proper Chelsea.

It got busier and busier. I limited myself to two pints, though craved more. I chatted to a chap – name unknown – who I occasionally see at Chelsea, about the Liverpool debacle. It’s such a gorgeous thing to watch from afar, isn’t it? The Stoke vs. Liverpool game was on the pub TV and it looked a dire game. If Liverpool lose these days…great…if they win…Rafa stays. We can’t lose.

I had to meet Wes outside The So Bar to hand over his match ticket, so I left the cosy ( very cosy ) confines of The Goose at 2.15pm.

Unfortunately, Wes was running late.

Oh dear.

I waited for Wes to arrive and took in the scene. I take so many photographs of games and I am always looking for new subjects and angles. I took a few quick snaps of the street scene outside The So Bar…police on horseback, programme sellers, the deluge of on-rushing fans, the tourists with their megastore bags, the veterans in heavy jackets and baseball caps. The souvenir stall by the West Stand seemed to be doing a good trade. I bought a programme and a copy of CFCUK. A text came through from Andy Wray in SF that Stoke had grabbed an equaliser against Liverpool…our former defender Robert Huth to thank. A good sign.

Thankfully, Wes ( huffing and puffing ) arrived at 2.45pm and it just allowed me enough time to line up at the turnstiles and get in for kick-off. Wes would be watching from Dave’s ST seat in the Shed Upper.

The rain had thankfully stopped, but it was overcast…

I saw the team and I wondered if it would be a Jose-style 4-3-3 or Carlo 4-3-2-1.

Within a minute, Joey Cole was set up nicely by a Malouda header ( a what? ) but he fluffed his lines. Within three minutes, a lovely cross from Ivanovic was headed wide by Ashley. It was a bright start and things looked promising. I noted four flags of St.George draped over the Sunderland balcony as Frank Lampard took a corner. The Sunderland fans booed him. I wonder if they will be booing him when he plays for St. George in South Africa in June.

Soon into the game, both ends of the stadium began singing…

“We want you to stay, we want you to stay…”

…and I wondered who they were talking about. I soon found out.

“Rafa Benitez –We want you to stay.”

A beautifully deft and disguised through-ball from Michael Ballack set up “Doves” who calmly slotted home. He went to the corner and waited for his team mates to join him, just in front of Wes.

Click, click, click.

It was a fantastic ball from Ballack…a ball which made my heart purr…a ball which defied the laws of trigonometry. If had I had played a similar ball in five-a-side, people would think I mis-hit it.

Next up was a great goal from Malouda, now in the inside-right channel. He won the ball and advanced. There were general murmurings of discontent as he advanced…we simply had no faith in him chosing the right option. A step-over, a shimmy and a shot despatched with great precision into the far corner of the goal and we all celebrated wildly. Well done sir! Despite the passages of poor play, Malouda does show the occasional glimpse of pure skill. How infuriating he is.

After Ballack’s sublime touch for the opener, Alan had noted he was back to his usual self…poor passes and such-like. What followed was the line of the season –

“Ballack is just like Adolf Hitler. One good ball and he thinks he can rule the World.”

Oh boy – that had me in stitches. Alan is full of these droll comments. I have known him for 26 years and it is a pleasure to watch a game with him.

The next goal ( who’s keeping count? ) was the best of the day and possibly the season thus far. A launch from JT into the path of Ashley. A first touch from heaven, a dummy ( see you later, send me a postcard ) and a flick with the outside of the foot into the goal.

What a goal. We love Ashley and his name was sung with gusto.

Ashley then “dug out” a great cross for Frank to toe-poke home. Blimey. When was the last time we were 4-0 up at half-time?

I disappeared off for a steak and ale pie ( I’m still an addict ), thus missing the introduction of Ian Britton at half-time. When Ossie left in 1974, Ian Britton became my favourite player…industrious, pacy, a hive of activity. The last time I saw him ( I think, without checking ) was in October 1981 against Wrexham…Beth’s first-ever game infact. I watched him trot down towards The Shed. He now lives in Burnley. Great to see him again.

I quickly scanned the programme…there was mention of the amazing 2-3 and 7-1 games against Tromso in 1997…the home game still remains my highest ever Chelsea win in over 750 matches attended. I wondered if we would beat it. In CFCUK, many contributors were moaning about the booing against Fulham.

Quite right too.

A re-cap of the Chelsea supporters’ banners now adorning the balcony of the East…from north to south…Waterford, Swindon, New York, Cork, Hastings, Bermuda, Sweden, Lincolnshire.

Soon into the second-half, a rocket from Anelka was touched onto the bar by Fulop. Soon after, an inch-perfect cross from Joe found Ballack. An easy header, but an emphatic one. Get in.

Zenden made it 5-1. Big deal.

Then Anelka made it 6-1…a tap in. Thoughts of Tromso…

A header from Joe hit the post…still we attacked. After an Anelka miss, we got the required seven via a nice Lampard header…it was a lovely feeling to see the players so happy down below me. I almost expected Ian Britton to sneak onto the pitch and grab a goal.

Then Sunderland made it 7-2. Drat! However, a new record for me…I had never seen nine goals in the same game before. I had been texting a few friends in California and I could taste their elation from 6,000 miles away. Everyone together, everyone happy. It was the perfect end to a lovely week for me as I had received some great news about my current contract at work.

Happy Days.

I drove home, with thoughts of imminent visits to Tom Finney’s Preston and Ian Britton’s Burnley coming up. Fantastic times.

I watched “MOTD” later in the evening. Alan Hansen was gushing in his praise, especially of our Ash, who he said was “the best left-back in the World, bar none.” Music to my ears.

One thing did surprise me…even at 5-0, 6-1 and 7-1, The Bridge seemed stunningly quiet.

We need to sort that out. Let’s get the place rocking against Birmingham City and Arsenal.

Tales From The First Premiership Game Of The Season

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Hull City : 15 August 2009.

Pre-Match One.

On Friday, six of us ( Rob, Glenn, Andy, Daryl, Alan and myself ) were having our usual weekly / daily email chat about all things Chelsea and touched on a variety of topics…concerns about the lack of width in Carlo’s preferred Diamond, the loans of Mancienne and Stoch, Chelsea subsidised away travel, the realisation that most of our new supporters are middle-class and quiet…and the feeling that Chelsea’s main push is growing the Global Brand ahead of getting the “next generation” of local youngsters to games. The six of us, with around 6,000 games between us, agreed on virtually every point made. Chalk it up – this rarely happens.

Pre-Match Two.

On the BBC evening news on Friday, there was a three minute news story about the Premiership’s appeal throughout the rest of the World. It emphasised that the EPL is the real global game. There was a section involving a stadium full of Korean Liverpool fans singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and then action from a few games from last season. Frank’s goal at Manchester City was featured ( and yes – there was Lovejoy in the crowd yet again…or ought that to be Chris De Burgh? ). The last section involved film of us in Baltimore – match action, close-ups of Frank and JT and – inevitably – a few seconds of the CIA section on the TV screen at the stadium…with Burger prominent, as always.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/footbal … 199528.stm

This was a nice pre curser to our opener against Phil Brown’s Hull City on Saturday lunchtime.

We set off from Frome at 8.30am and it was a blustery morning, with slight drizzle. Lots of chat about the Community Shield and the new season ahead. We made our predictions. I think that the Premiership splits into two and I think that the top half will consist of Chelsea, Manchester United, Liverpool, Manchester City, Tottenham, Arsenal, Aston Villa, Everton, Fulham and West Ham. I had Sunderland down as my dark horses – or dark cats – to break into the top half.

Before we knew it, Karen was parked up at 10.30am. I shot off down to the ground as I had to get a replacement season ticket – I don’t know how I had managed it, but I had already mislaid my original one. The replacement cost me £25 – drat. However, box office manager Eddie Barnett ( who gets a bad press, well justified ) thanked me for my honesty and gave me back the £25. Nice one. Just outside the Megastore, I saw Neil Barnett approach. I caught his eye and said “here we go again”, not really knowing if he would stop and chat or give me the time of day. His reaction was nice – he gave me a hug and we chatted very briefly about the tour, before his attention was taken up by Lorrie Fair…I can understand this. I would rather talk to Lorrie Fair than me.

The next lovely surprise was inside the match programme – a small photo from the game in Pasadena with nice close-ups of Danny, Jeremy, Mark and Rick. The programme is in much the same style as last year’s edition…in fact, all of the ones since 2003 are very similar in design. There was a nice piece by Ric Glanville about the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game in 1935 ( the 83,905 game ) with comments from a 91 year old fan who was present. I love stuff like that. I bought a copy of “CFCUK” and hot-footed it up to The Goose for 11.15am. I passed lots of Chelsea supporters wearing the new away kit and every time I had a mental picture of Cary. Have you taken it off yet, mate? I also noted the new Hull City shirt and it is pure retro from 1982. A shame – I thought their kit from last season was one of the most distinctive in the league.

I only had time for three pints in The Goose beer garden and it was much too rushed for my liking. It was all very manic. I showed a few of the lads my photos from America. There was a battle royale of 1930’s tennis players taking place – Daryl and Rob sporting Fred Perry polos with Lord Parky and Jocka sporting those of Rene Lacoste.

It was deuce.

I bumped into Carrie from Manhattan, having last seen her in Baltimore. She had just flown in from Dublin and was talking with an Irish brogue which I found amusing. After the game, she was off to see U2 at Wembley. We had a nice chat and I reintroduced her to a few of The Bing. Glenn got “one last pint” in just as the pub began to drift off to the game. We were up against it. I bolted the beer down and left at 12.20pm.

We reached the entrance by the North-West corner at 12.35pm, but there was yet another new scanning device being used. Everyone tried blaming the delay on that, but we all knew that “one last pint” was to really blame. At 12.46pm, we heard an “ooooh” from inside the ground and this was unnerving.

“Don’t score yet – I’m still outside.” This, of course, was the miss from the boot of Didier Drogba.

Anyway, I got inside at 12.52pm and settled as quickly as I could…I had a game update from Alan, clocked the line-up ( no complaints ), texted a few people, took a few snaps and sat back to enjoy the league opener. I noted a couple of new flags draped over The Shed balcony ( Chelsea Teeside and Chelsea Bristol And Bath ). I really should have taken up “Vinci Per Noi” to welcome Carlo Ancelotti to SW6, but clean forgot. There seemed to be no structural or cosmetic changes to the stadium over the summer. It seemed as if I hadn’t been away to be honest. We created a few half-chances in the first period. I got back from a quick visit to the loos to see Stephen Hunt ( of all people ) knock in a goal for the visitors. The amber away section went mad and taunted Ancelotti with a chant about “getting sacked in the morning.” How we laughed.

Not long after, we were awarded a free-kick about 25 yards out and I went for a wide-angle option as Drogba shaped to take the kick. He struck the ball and, a moment after, I snapped. The ball dipped and ended up in the goal and I was pleased I had captured League Goal Number One on film. Shame I chose the wide-angle, though. I thought we had struggled a bit in the first-half to be honest, but was impressed with Drogba. I made the point to Alan that I wished that ( at least at the very start of the season ), Drogba and Anelka would play closer together…if anything, just to get to know each other…there were very little “diagonal” / off the ball / crossover moves between the two. We need that relationship to develop and I don’t think it can if they are continually twenty yards apart.

Definitely room for improvement in the second-half.

I looked around as the second-half began and realised that the place had been pretty quiet. These 12.45pm starts are always the same. A few more pints would have loosened us up more. “The Shed Singing Section” clearly weren’t. I noted swaths of replica shirts in the lower tiers of both side stands, plus all of The Shed. Conversely, not so many in the Matthew Harding Upper. In my own “Sleepy Hollow” section by Gate 9, I counted just two replica shirts in the thirty closest spectators. It has always been the same. However, perhaps inspired by me in Baltimore, I did note two other replica shirts ( originals, not copies ) from 1983. Nice work.

What with Hull’s amber shirts and Phil Brown’s permatan, I did wonder if Ray Wilkins might have thought he was in the middle of another Tango advert.

The game continued and Drogba looked the liveliest Chelsea player by a mile. We had lots of possession, but were playing into Hull’s hands. We had no width in the final third and our fears about The Diamond were being realised. I thought back on the two other periods when we have played this system…1976-1977 with Ray Lewington holding, Butch at the apex, but genuine width with Ian Britton and Garry Stanley…1993-1994 with Steady Eddie at the rear, Gavin Peacock in the hole and Craig Burley and Dennis Wise out wide…not so effective. At this early stage, it seems that the defence and attack is sorted…we just need to pick the correct four in the middle.

A real conundrum for our new man.

I was getting frustrated with our lack of incision into the Hull defence, but also with the lack-lustre support. We seemed to have around four or five headers which went over during the game. With six minutes of extra time signalled, I noted a few Chelsea fans leaving and I shook my head.

On 92 minutes, Drogba crossed into space and we could not believe it when the net bulged. Oh you beauty.

Mad celebration and I looked over to Alan. We broke the protocol and both said, in perfect unity, with beaming smiles –

“They’ll Have To Come At Us Now – Come On My Little Diamonds.” It was a perfect moment. We hooted with laughter.

I thought back to our game against Hull last November. On that occasion, Frank’s delightful chip was intentional. In this game against Hull, Drogba’s chip clearly wasn’t. At long last, the Chelsea support got it going and the noise echoed around the MHU. It was a long time coming, but it felt great.

Sunderland – minus me – next!

Tales From The Away End / Home End

Posted on July 21, 2013 by Chris Axon

Portsmouth vs. Chelsea : 24 September 2008.

As I think I may have said a few times, Portsmouth is one of my favourite away games, not the least because it’s the closest Premier League ground to my home.

I had booked a half-day holiday, so left work just after 1pm…back home for some scoff, a quick change and away at 3pm.

Another solo trip for me, but I had arranged to meet up with a former school friend, Rick, a Portsmouth a season-ticket holder for some 16 years. He had left Frome to go to college in London, but had grabbed the opportunity to move down to the south coast in 1992. He now lives only about half a mile from Fratton Park.

Portsmouth is only 75 miles away and it’s a fine route down, heading down the A36, through the beautiful cathedral city of Salisbury ( the cathedral’s spire is the highest in England and is quite stunning )…I noted that Salisbury is now twinned with the two US towns of Salisbury in Maryland and North Carolina. Does anyone live close to these towns? Onto the M27, straight past Southampton and onto Portsmouth. Maybe I’ll tell the story of the two cities’ rivalry later in the season…suffice to say the two sets of fans don’t get on.

I approached Portsmouth at around 4.45pm. Portsmouth is a strange place. The city itself is on the island of Portsea and shares this island with the more up-market resort of Southsea. The streets in and around Fratton Park consist of tight terraced houses. I suggest looking at the area on Google Earth to give some sort of idea of the claustrophobic nature of the city. On busy match days, getting out is a nightmare. My two mates Alan and Gary were on their way down the M3 on one of the Chelsea coaches. Desperate for a drink, I popped into The Good Companion, where I had a quick chat with Mad Mark and Jon. I excused myself as I had to deal with a few phone-calls from work. I spent a few minutes taking a look around Fratton Park. It’s such a classic old-style football ground, with floodlight pylons, old stands along the sides and certainly adds to the character of the city’s football team. You get a real sense of one town / one team at Portsmouth. The approach to the main stand is a classic sight – the entrance all mock Tudor beams. In days past, The Pompey pub was adjacent to the entrance, but this closed a while ago. On a visit to Fratton for a friendly in 2002, I noted it had been turned into a club shop…it’s now the PFC media centre…if that isn’t metaphor for the changing focus of football clubs I don’t know what is!

The weather was turning nasty, the drizzle was getting heavier. I needed to find a pub. Walking past the alleyway by the away end, I spotted a Portsmouth FC mural, denoting about twenty former players…I spotted one of their former striker William “Farmer Boy” Haines from the ‘twenties. My father knew this player as Wyndy Haines – after his playing days, he ran a pub in my local town of Frome.

I popped into The Rose In June ( no idea why the pub has such an odd name ) and had a text chat on the phone with Bob in Fremont and Teri in LA. They were glad to hear I was at the game. I had to laugh…I heard one of the barmaids shout out “Celery?” and I wondered what treats lie ahead. Oh no, my mistake – she actually said “Cellar key?” I read the programme – I don’t often buy one…columnist Steve Bone made a few good points about formations.

“I don’t understand formations. That’s football team formations, not cloud formations. Although I don’t really get them either. Actually it’s not so much that I don’t understand them; more that I don’t notice them. This is probably not a great thing to be admitting for someone who spends parts of his working life reporting on football matches, but there we are. It’s no good pretending. If you were to say to me after a game: How do you think the 3-5-2 worked?” I’d probably answer: “What 3-5-2? Who was playing 3-5-2? Where am I?”

I had to chuckle. He then went through the traditional 1-11 that I grew up with ( and understood! ) but lamented “I can’t quite pinpoint when this formula started to fall apart, but I should imagine it was around the same time that society itself began to crumble.”

Good stuff.

At 6.30pm, I called in to see Rick, who had just returned from work. Back to the pub for another drink. He’s off to Portugal with Pompey next week and is relishing the trip, their first ever in Europe. We talked throughout the evening about what supporting a lesser club in the eighties, during those hard school years, was like…it was pretty tough at times…but every dog has its day and I am genuinely pleased that his loyalty has now been rewarded with Cup Finals and trips to Europe. Payback time for all the hardships! His daughter Catherine, 10, has only seen Pompey in three away games and they have all been at Wembley! Unbelievable.

I waited while Rick demolished a Mick Monster Burger and then had a quick word with Cathy and Dog. I don’t think Cath was too impressed I was watching from a “home area.” Sorry – it won’t happen again!

We then took our seats in the North Stand ( the one along the side, facing the TV cameras, the one where Chicago Ian watched from in February ) and I promised to watch my Ps and Qs.

Chelsea had the entire Milton End, 2,500 strong and I spotted that we ( they? This is very confusing…) stood the entire game. I had a good seat, near the Fratton End. As Mike Oldfield’s “Portsmouth” was played on the PA, the teams entered the stadium. Both teams were going for it…I saw Ivanovic was debuting at right back, Belletti was in the Maka, er, Essien, er, Mikel role. Bridger at left back.

Pompey had a few early thrusts, but we soon took control…a silly challenge on Ballack and Frank the Penalty slotted home. I was texting madly to my mate Alan in the Chelsea end, Beth and Andy in the US – and only just caught Malouda’s goal. Coasting.

We played some nice stuff, but like the league opener, Portsmouth were very poor…they usually give us a tough game at Fratton, too.

At one moment in the first period, Ballack was getting some abuse from the home followers around me and so ( please avert your eyes and ears if you are easily offended ) I seized the opportunity to get stuck in too…”Ballack, you’re cattle-trucking useless!” Of course, I didn’t mean it, but it felt right and proper that I at last got it off my chest, after his poor show in 2006-2007.

Please forgive me. It made Beth laugh, anyway.

Kalou impressed me in the second-half…his nice neat run and cross set up Frank’s second goal and our third…James flapped and fluffed, the ball hit Frank on the chest and it timidly crossed the line. I forgot where I was and silently stood…it was bizarre to wait for a full two seconds for the Chelsea fans to roar…they obviously had no idea it had crossed the line.

Another defensive error – Distin this time – and Kalou rifled the fourth.

“Training session – at Fratton Park.”

Scott Sinclair came on in the last twenty minutes, took up his position right in front of me on the wing, then proceeded to fall over, loose control, run into people…I think we might not see the best of Scotty…I have a feeling he might never make it at Chelsea.

Bumped into my good mate Andy from Nuneaton on the walk back to the car…I joked with Rick not to kick the cat when he reached his house…he was certainly lamenting some awful defending.

The roads were clear on the drive home. Via a coffee stop en route, back home at 11.30pm…just in time to catch the Carling Cup highlights on ITV.

Perfect.

Received a text from Rick this morning –

“great to catch up last night, close game, thought we defended well…cat still alive.”

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Tactics