Tag Archives: Tales

Tales From Vicarious Pleasures

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Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 13 January 2016.

When I first started penning – or rather typing – these Chelsea match reports, firstly on a rather ad hoc basis, in around 2006 on the “Chelsea In America” website, there was one word which tended to be mentioned with ever more increasing regularity.

“Vicarious.”

For those folks on the other side of the pond, as the old cliché goes, who had never been lucky enough to be able to attend Chelsea games in person, I received many positive comments which thanked me for allowing them to live vicariously through my personal detailing of my match day experiences. It is a word that still occasionally pops up to this day. Ahead of our midweek match with the Baggies from West Bromwich, I was well aware that for a few hours there would be a certain amount of role reversal taking place.

Charles, a Chelsea supporter from the Dallas area of Texas, would be attending his first-ever Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge, and I had planned to meet up with him before the game. I first met Charles in his home town for our friendly with Club America at the spanking new home of the Dallas Cowboys in 2009, and we have chatted on line about many aspects of football and fandom on a regular basis. In addition to being a Chelsea supporter, he is an FC Dallas season ticket holder and he attends the occasional away game too. We both work in logistics – and Charles loves foreign travel, and has written of his experiences on a personal blog too – so we have a few things to talk about outside of Chelsea. I last bumped into him in Charlotte in North Carolina over the summer. Although he has visited Europe twice before – Italy – this would be his first trip to England. He arrived on the morning of the game. I soon sent him a message.

“Welcome to Chelsealand.”

“Thanks! That line at customs ain’t no joke.”

“Need to make sure that Donald Trump doesn’t get in.”

As I muddled my way through my shift at work, I wondered what Charles would be making of the alien streets of London. The new architecture, awkward accents, different streetscapes, a brand new buzz. I was, oh most definitely, jealous of him. There is nothing like, in my mind, a first few hours in a new country, town or city.

His first few comments back to me were revealing.

“So far, London is great. So diverse.”

And indeed it is. Very diverse. And our current team mirrors it. Belgium, Spain, England, France, Brazil, Serbia, Bosnia, Italy, Ghana, Senegal, Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Colombia.

The day’s work completed, I met up with PD and Parky. PD was taking a turn to drive and I could relax. We were in the middle of three home games in seven days and an evening with The Great Unpredictables was waiting for us in London.

In The Goose, the usual suspects were assembled. We were all very happy with our F.A. Cup pairing with either the Cobblers of Northampton Town or the knobheads at Franchise FC. As we stood in our corner of the pub, it was confirmed that our game would kick-off at 4pm on the Sunday. This was met with predictable groans. It would mean that I would not get home until around 9pm that night.

Bollocks.

Charles had made his way to Fulham Broadway and then ‘phoned for directions to pub. He sounded rather tired. I suspected that the jet-lag was having an unfortunate effect. He arrived fashionably late, at just after 7pm, but it was lovely to be able to welcome him to The Goose. I had a pint of trademark “Peroni” waiting for him and then introduced him to a few mates.

“Ah, you’re Lord Parky.”

Before we knew it, it was time to head off to the game. Such a fleeting pre-match, but Charles is in town for the Everton game too, so there will be another chance to serve up some Chelsea hospitality then. I was well aware that Charles had a ticket in the corner of The Shed. His front row seat was the stuff of dreams.

“Great position for when we score and the players go down to the corner flag to celebrate.”

Outside the West Stand, we wished each other well.

“Enjoy it mate. See you Saturday.”

Inside Stamford Bridge, I was stunned by the paucity of the away support. The lower tier, maybe able to hold 500 seemed half-full but the 1,000 seats in the upper tier were hardly used. The section filled a little before the kick-off, but West Brom’s contingent was surely no more than four hundred. I moaned at Alan :

“Bloody hell, the next time we go to their gaff and they sing “WWYWYWS” to us. They’re not even here when they’re good.”

The Matthew Harding soon let them know their feelings.

“Is that all you take away?”

To be honest, the gaps in the south-east corner were matched by many empty seats in the home areas. In just the immediate area of where our season tickets are situated, I counted ten empty seats. Over in the south-west corner, I soon spotted Charles. He is well over 6 feet tall. He is easy to spot. He was standing no more than five yards from Parky. Towards the seventeen away fans in the Shed Upper, a large “Chelsea Poland” banner was spotted on the balcony wall for the first time.

Guus Hiddink had finely-tuned the team since Sunday. In came Thibaut Courtois, John Terry and Jon Obi Mikel. When we arrived in London at bang on 6pm, the weather was milder than I had expected. By the time of kick-off, there was a chill to the air. The lights dimmed again, and there was the dramatic entrance of the teams once more.

“The Liquidator” echoed around the stadium.

Here we go.

There was a bright start from both teams, but Chelsea got into their groove quicker than the red-shirted visitors. Diego Costa, blasting ridiculously high into the Shed Upper, and then Willian wasted good chances. But then the visitors went close too, with chances arguably better. Thankfully, we escaped unpunished.

On twenty minutes, we were treated to a fine move. Cesc Fabregas picked out Diego Costa who controlled the ball well and fed Willian. He passed outside to the advanced Branislav Ivanovic, whose low cross was turned in by Cesar Azpilicueta. It was a magnificent move and Stamford Bridge ignited. As I spotted Dave running across the goalmouth and towards the corner, I knew that I had to capture the moment. I snapped away as Dave leaped, rather awkwardly, before being met by his team mates. My pre-game comment to Charles was prophetic. There were the celebrations. And there was Charles, capturing the moment on his phone. A perfect moment.

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For a while, we played some lovely stuff. Maybe we were buoyed by the goal, but I noted a greater willingness to play the ball early. There was movement off the ball. There was a little more energy. I spotted Dave make some excellent blind-side runs behind the West Brom defence, but the playmakers were unable to spot him. Diego Costa was holding the ball up well. Fabregas almost played the pass of the season. Ivanovic put in a few more good crosses. We were playing as a team. This was good stuff.

And then, West Brom bounced back a little. Their new found confidence was rewarded when Pedro, the one who was yet to shine, weakly gave away the ball around the halfway line. Fletcher fed in Gardner, who was able to advance before unleashing a low drive from outside the box, which disappointingly crept in to the goal, just inside the post.

Ugh.

A couple of chances were traded before the break. Although it had been a reasonable first-half of football, the atmosphere was sadly missing. The temperature was dropping further, and although most fans in the lower tiers behind both goals were standing, the noise was poor. There were songs from The Shed on occasion and I was sure that Charles was joining in, but there was no cauldron of noise which we are occasionally treated to at Chelsea.

Pat Nevin was on the pitch at half-time, chatting away to Neil Barnett. Talking of barnets, Cathy had posted a link on Facebook during the day which detailed Pat’s recent hair transplant. This was a really strange story; of all the people who I would have suspected to eschew such cosmetic procedures – vanity, in a word – it would be Pat. The world is a mighty strange place.

Hiddink replaced the poor Pedro with Kenedy at the break. He immediately impressed, shooting on sight from way out. The kid from Fluminense has great energy. One of my current workmates is from Brazil – a Palmeiras supporter, in case anyone is wondering – and Bruno has a younger brother who is a promising footballer. He is currently staying in London and training with Chelsea, with hopes of signing a contract. He once trained with Kenedy in Brazil at a training camp hosted by a club. Who knows, if things go really well, Bruno’s eighteen year old brother could soon be playing for Vitesse Arnhem.

The referee then became the target of our ire. He had – in the eyes of some, maybe not me – blown for the end of the first-half just as we were breaking away, but then chose not to issue a second yellow card to Yacob for a trip on Diego Costa. Willian curled over from the resulting free-kick.

This was turning in to a feisty encounter. The crowd were suddenly the noisiest for the entire night.

I wondered if Charles was able to decipher the London accent.

“Yadontknowwhatcherdoin.”

The temperature dipped further, and now rain fell. I wondered if Charles was getting wet in the front row. All part of a typical London experience.

Temperatures were rising though in the home stands as West Brom seemed to be time wasting. Their goalkeeper Myhill – a fat Jack Whitehall – was booked as he waited for a team mate to put his boot back on. The referee, hardly flavour of the month, booked others. It was a niggly old game. We struggled to create too much in a poor second-half. Oscar and Fabregas seemed distant. Elsewhere others were struggling too. Zouma, so dominant in the air, found himself out of position and struggling on the ground.

Myhill was still getting it.

“You fat bastard. You fat bastard. You fat bastard. You fat bastard.”

Then, the ball was moved out to Willian, always looking to gain a yard, and he spotted the movement of Kenedy. From behind a grassy knoll, he whipped in a troublesome cross. In a flash, Kenedy lunged at the ball and it flew in to the net, squeezing past the loathed Myhill. Kenedy ran off to celebrate in the far corner, and was joined by many others. Alan suspected an own goal. I was not sure. Regardless, we were winning.

Get in.

There were just fifteen minutes remaining. Costa went close again. But then the visitors came at us again. Matic, masked like Dave, replaced the poor Fabregas. The minutes ticked by. We seemed to be at risk with every West Brom attack. The place became nervous once more. With just five minutes remaining, a loose ball fell to the equally loathed James McLean who crisply dispatched the ball past Courtois and in, again creeping in by the foot of a post.

2-2.

Bollocks.

We collectively crumpled. If anything, the visitors seemed more likely to grab a – unwarranted – winner. In the end, the final whistle was almost greeted with relief. On walking back to the car, I chatted to PD.

“Just not good enough mate. Whenever we attacked, we were up against a packed defence. When they attacked us, they always seemed to have more space in which to move the ball. Tough game coming up against Everton. Lukaku. Then Arsenal away. Dreading it.”

I am sure that Charles had enjoyed himself, though. And, again, I had enjoyed sharing his evening in deepest SW6. It had been a vicarious evening if not a victorious one. This bloody strange season continues.

Everton at home on Saturday. On we go.

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Tales From The Top Of The Tree

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Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2014.

Thanks to the power brokers at the FA and Sky TV, our game at Stoke City was changed to a Monday 8pm evening kick-off. Not to worry; the city of Stoke-On-Trent is a relatively easy place to get to-and-from, especially since I now finish work at 3.30pm. I set off from Chippenham alone.

I texted Steve, visiting from California and en route to Staffordshire on the official club coach with his wife Sonia, with a message to say that I was “on the road.”

“Duck Kerouac.”

This was a solo-mission for me, for once. Last season, there was a similar Monday night away game tucked in just before the yuletide festivities. However, our dull 0-0 draw at Arsenal is remembered more by me for the atrocious weather conditions which were waiting for me during the last hour of my drive home. This was the occasion when my car became stranded in rising floodwater on a local road, only ten miles from home, and when I had to cadge a lift with a policeman and then walk home for the last three miles, sodden to the skin. Happy days.

In 2014, I hoped for no repeat.

I also hoped that there would be no repeat of our fixture at Stoke City’s Britannia Stadium last season, when they inflicted a painful 3-2 defeat. That away game in The Potteries represented a low-water mark for this particular website since the match report drew a season-long low number of views, by quite a large margin.

What’s the old saying?

“If you only support Chelsea when we win, don’t support us when we lose.”

At the time, I wondered if I ought to change my website tag line.

“Read when we’re winning. You only read when we’re winning.”

I ate up the miles on the familiar road north, stopping at the new Gloucester services where I was financially abused in order to eat a pasty and a sandwich.

“£7 please.”

“Merry Christmas.”

With a backdrop of music from The Buzzcocks, I thought a little about the game. With Manchester City now level with us at the very top of the table, the pressure was now on us to perform. This would be a tough physical, battle, no doubt. It had the potential to be a season-defining moment. Would we buckle under pressure or would we reconfirm our championship potential?

The time soon passed.

I turned off the A500 and was soon parked at my usual place, on the grass verge on the exit road. Around twenty cars were similarly parked.

It was 6.30pm.

Although I love revisiting my old college town, there would be no time, alas, to visit old haunts before the game kicked-off. My college years began in the autumn of 1984 and I found it hard to reconcile the fact that it all seemed relatively recent; for several moments during the evening my mind wandered back to fleeting thoughts of my student digs during that first year, my college mates – some of which I still see – and, of course, memories of Chelsea, and also Stoke City, games.

In that first term, from September to December, I travelled down to Stamford Bridge on four Saturdays, plus an away game at Sheffield Wednesday, but I also saw Stoke City play Watford at their old Victoria Ground. As students, we had a reduction in admission – maybe £2.50 and not £3 – and I remember standing in the side paddock below the main stand seats as Watford won 3-1. The gate was around 10,000. Stoke were truly awful in that season and finished rock bottom of Division One. It is a mystery to everyone that their three victories were against Manchester United, Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday. The Victoria Ground featured three stands with seats and standing terraces in front, but with the standing-only Boothen End to the south. At the time, it was a neat stadium, but nothing special in my mind. Of course, with the advantage of hindsight – and maybe rose coloured spectacles – the old stadium’s charms seem more appealing. Each stand different, each with its own individual charms, and – of course – what I would pay to be able to lean on a crush barrier on a vast terrace such as The Boothen once again. It is pertinent to note that the noisy atmosphere associated with The Britannia these days is a very recent phenomenon. Stoke were never too noisy in my time.

Maybe the three seasons that I attended games there – a relegation season, plus two grey seasons in the Second Division – are not a suitable sample size.

On the walk from my car to the stadium, which is located in a part of the city called Sideway – pronounced “Siddaway, duck” – I walked past the Trent And Mersey Canal. An entrepreneuring fellow was selling oatcakes – the local delicacy, but I never was a fan – from his canal boat. The smoke rising from inside reminded me of the smoke associated with the selling of hot chestnuts and hot dogs on the Fulham Road in previous years. Does anyone else remember those little tin hot dog stands at Chelsea on match days, and the grubby hands of the chaps who sold them?

Shudder.

The main stand at The Brittania is surprisingly high. From the outside, it looks impressive. Unlike the single-tiered bowl at Southampton, Stoke City decided to go for a different approach in the design of their new stadium. The main stand is double-decked, but stands alone, not linked to the other structures. The away end, at the south end, stands alone too. The home end is linked to the other side stand. Maybe the intricacies and architectural anomalies of the old Victoria were purposefully repeated here.

The home end, also called The Boothen End, allows a little continuity for the residents. For those paying attention, the Boothen End was at the southern end of the old stadium, but is at the northern end of the new one. Is this a mistake? Not really, since the area of Boothen, roughly speaking, sits between the sites of the two stadia.

I made another pilgrimage to the grassed area behind the Boothen End to admire the magnificent series of statues which celebrate the city’s most famous son, Sir Stanley Matthews. Against the backdrop of the night sky, I managed to take a few dramatic photographs.

On my approach to the away turnstiles, I chatted briefly to a steward and I spoke about that awful 1984-1985 season.

“Keith Bertschin, George Berry, Steve Bould…”

Inside the away end – it is actually split 60/40 with home fans – I soon spotted Steve and Sonia. While the goalkeepers went through their pre-game routines, which involved fans taking a few selfies with Petr Cech, we chatted about our journeys to Stoke and our plans for the rest of the Christmas matches. A friend outside the away end had mentioned that the Stoke defenders would probably be niggling Diego Costa, especially, from the kick-off and he would need to be strong in mind and body not to get embroiled in any silliness.

I was positioned halfway back right behind the goal. Being an away season-ticket holder has its privileges. Alas Alan was unable to get time off work for this one – “thanks Sky” – but Gal was alongside me. A few Christmas songs were played on the PA and I was filled with a modicum of pride to see the sign on the home end :

“The Boothen End – Sponsored By Staffordshire University.”

…of course, back in my day, it was the more down-at-heel “North Staffs Poly.”

Although it had been a blustery walk to the ground, inside it was relatively OK.

I still remember the bitterness of our cup game up there in 2003; the coldest that I have ever been at a Chelsea game. I’m still thawing out from that one.

Jose Mourinho again played Matic alongside Mikel, which pushed Fabregas alongside Hazard and Willian. This would always be a physical battle. We were ready for the Stoke onslaught. Steve had asked me about the Stoke atmosphere, but the noise levels weren’t great before the game. The Chelsea fans, however, were in buoyant form.

In parts of Manchester, others were looking on.

Chelsea – with blue socks, I’m still not a fan – had a perfect start. Hazard seemed to be in acres of space on the left – maybe an optical illusion caused by the fact that the main stand sits way back from the action – advanced and played the ball in to Brana. His shot was deflected for a corner. Cesc sent over a fabulous corner and, through the lens of my camera, I saw at least three Chelsea players converge to meet the ball. After a slight delay, the three thousand away fans soon realised that the net had rippled and we were one up.

Get in.

It took ages for anyone around me to realise that JT had headed home.

Alan, South London : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, South Stoke : “COMLD, duck.”

Steve, South Philly : “I haven’t even sat down.”

Chris, South Stoke : “It’s OK. Neither have I.”

We completely dominated the game for the next ten minutes and the home team hardly touched the ball. We bossed it and our play was crisp and purposeful.  However, the rough tackles were starting to mount up. It took a full twenty minutes for Stoke City to muster much in their attacking third; when they did, the home stands finally delivered some formidable noise. Until that point, Chelsea had been in control off the pitch too. This was my first-ever midweek Chelsea game at Stoke – when was the last one? – and I was loving it. A good game, a noisy away section, good times.

An awful challenge on Eden Hazard by Phil Bardsley, down on the left touchline, made the entire away end howl. OK, I was one hundred yards away, but this was an ugly, brutal assault on our supremely gifted magician. I was praying for a red card to be handed out but was dismayed to see a yellow. Mark Hughes – I loved him as a Chelsea player, but those days are long gone – was full of rage, throwing his arms around in a theatrical display of histrionics. It was akin to the movements shown by matadors or variety performers cracking whips. Maybe Hughes thought he would be getting points for it.

What a fool.

Hughes and Mourinho came together momentarily, and Hughes’ tantrums continued. For the rest of the game, Jose silently stalked his technical area, his presence probably annoying Hughes further. I lost count of the times that Hughes threw his arms down amid a verbal onslaught to the poor fourth official.

Courtois reacted brilliantly to push Nzonzi’s deflected low drive away for a corner. The corner, like others, was superbly claimed by our young goalkeeper. Although Petr Cech is a superb goalkeeper, his control of his six yard box – for a tall man – hasn’t always been great. A goal which was scored last season on the same ground is a case in point. In contrast, Courtois seems peerless. With the ball lofted high in to our box, I am always confident that Thibaut will claim it.

This was a fine game, but there were niggles.

The referee needed to talk to several players at a Stoke corner as players scrambled for an advantage. After a few half-hearted Stoke threats were repelled – a Cahill block comes to mind – we regained the advantage.

After good work from Matic, an oblique pass into space from Fabregas was gorgeous, but Diego Costa shot wide. Our lone striker enjoyed a fine half, running well with the ball, keeping the ball tight, but also his movement off the ball was also exemplary. There were fine performances all over, though Willian, despite his energy, was delaying his final pass which caused the away fans to grow restless. He seemed to spend his time scuttling sideways – in Sideway – rather than penetrating the defence with a pass. However, it was a minor complaint.

At the other end, more comfortable leaps from Thibaut kept Stoke at bay.

Ex Chelsea season-ticket holder Peter Crouch was having a tough ride from our supporters –

“Does the circus know you’re here?”

At the break, the mood was optimistic.

“We need a second, though, Gal. One goal isn’t enough. We need those three points. Massive game tonight.”

We again dominated as the second period began. Willian shot at goal, then continued to do so at regular intervals throughout the half. Eden Hazard was quite magical all night long and it is an absolute pleasure to be able to watch him perform week in, week out. His art is his own, and Sir Stanley Matthews would have enjoyed our Belgian’s performance in his home town.

The pitch was Eden’s.

One dribble down the left went on for an age. It was just beautiful. With his rather chunky thighs, and his low centre of gravity, he is such an obdurate individual once he has the ball at his mercy. I am reminded of Bryon Butler’s description of Diego Maradona in the 1986 game against England.

“Turns like a little eel…and comes away from trouble…little squat man.”

That second goal was elusive, though. For all our possession, there was nothing. Substitute Charlie Adam shot narrowly wide, though I was convinced that it would be the equaliser.

Nerves.

Plenty of them.

“We’re starting to tire, Gal.”

On seventy-eight minutes, the ball was played by a raiding Eden Hazard towards Cesc Fabregas. His first touch wasn’t perfect and the ball was flicked up, but he was able to stretch for a second one, which resulted in the ball almost apologetically trickling over the line, with Begovic flat-footed.

60% of the south stand erupted.

GET IN.

Inside I was boiling, but I remained cool.

I snapped Fabregas’ joyous slide towards the baying away support on film.

Cesctasy.

We could, finally, relax.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away.”

Andre Schurrle, a late substitute for Willian, shot low but Begovic saved.  Diego Drogba replaced the excellent Diego Costa. Sadly, Eden Hazard was injured after another errant Stoke tackle. The substitute Kurt Zouma was momentarily deployed within our midfield ranks as the five minutes of extra-time ran out.

“Kurt Zouma – he plays where he wants.”

On the walk down the hill to my car, I was interested to hear the comments of the home supporters.

Asmir Begovic was mentioned scathingly, though the most interesting point of view was about one of our players.

“Matic is an absolutely brelliant play’yeh.”

“He es, ent he? He wens the ball, then pushes on.”

Ah that Stoke accent.

I reached my car and threw my pullover and jacket in the back seat. I flicked the CD on and – no word of a lie – the Buzzcocks sang :

“Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.”

Perfect.

I had my usual “see if I can get back on to the M6 in two minutes” race along the A500.

I did.

With our position at the top of the tree secured for Christmas, I could relax and quickly review my albeit brief time spent in The Potteries. It had reminded me so much of an infamous away win at Ewood Park against a thuggish Blackburn Rovers team during our 2004-2005 championship-winning campaign. We rose against the physicality of another Mark Hughes team that evening and many said that it was a watershed moment in our season. Ten years on, I had similar thoughts.

It had ben a brelliant naght, duck.

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Tales From Wigan In The Rain

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Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea : 19 August 2012.

Our pre-season was behind us. Chelsea obviously struggled over the six games, winning just the first one against Seattle Sounders. A draw against PSG was followed by defeats against the MLS All-Stars, Milan, Brighton and Manchester City. My pre-season involved the long, wondrous, descent from the heights of Munich-based euphoria to preparations for the US Tour and even for Tokyo in December. The US Tour brought new players, but my focus was on meeting friends and enjoying the craic. The football was a sideshow. However, I felt a rapid increase in my enthusiasm immediately before and then after the Community Shield match. My mind was all geared up for another assault on silverware, another campaign of tortuous journeys around England and Wales and the familiar way in which the club takes over my life from August to May each year. Of course, it has always been like this. Once August kicks off, every Chelsea game counts. From the wretched days of the Second Division in February 1983 to the Champions League Finals of May 2008 and May 2012, every game matters. There was a part of me, however, that toyed with the idea of discontinuing my match reports after Munich; how could any story beat that one? After four years of “Tales” – and well over half a million words – I began to wonder if I would be able to continue. From a personal level, it was the hardest part of my pre-season. Should I stop or should I press on regardless?

Well, here I am.

My Saturday was the perfect pre-cursor to my drive north on the Sunday. I juggled doing some chores throughout the day with three football incursions. When I’m at home, I never miss the BBC’s lunchtime preview show “Football Focus.” Typically, we were hardly mentioned, but my biggest complaint was the way in which the host and the two guests meekly dismissed the importance of the shocking decision by Cardiff City’s new Malaysian owners to change the team’s primary colours from blue to red. Imagine if Roman’s first move as Chelsea chairman was to kit us out in red? I would have been apoplectic.

Mark Lawrensen’s reaction was “if the team starts winning, it won’t be a problem.”

I am sure Cardiff’s hardcore don’t share this opinion.

I find it quite shocking for so-called “experts” to pontificate on subjects on which they appear clueless. The TV world is full of them. No – I’ll amend that statement. The world is full of them.

On Saturday afternoon, I paid my first visit of the season to watch my local team Frome Town play pre-season favourites AFC Totton, who hail from down near Southampton. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Frome’s team was full of new players and went 1-0 down not long into the game. However, two knock-ins from close range gave The Robins a 2-1 lead at the break. A superb goal mid-way through the second-half wrapped-up the points, despite a Frome player getting sent off. I went to nine games last season and virtually all were pretty dire. I just saw Frome win once. This game was better than all of them. It was a lovely afternoon, watching under a perfect sky with a few school mates. During the game, talk drifted around all sorts of subjects, as they always do at Frome Town. I mentioned that the Chelsea game on the Sunday at Wigan would be my 900th game. Talk turned to the next milestone; my 1,000th game. I have promised myself a nice celebration for that game, which will hopefully be at HQ. In fact, I wondered if I would be tempted to engineer a home game rather than a tiring trip up north.

“Chris – going to Everton on Saturday?”

“Uh – no.”

“Why’s that, mate?”

“Didn’t fancy it – see you the following Wednesday against Juventus.”

What a lovely array of results on the opening day of the Premiership season too; defeats for Tottenham and Liverpool, an embarrassing home defeat for QPR and no goals for Arsenal. My Saturday was completed when I watched the highlights from all of these games on “Match of the Day” in the evening. Watching “MOTD” on a Saturday night just seems the perfect way to end the day.

I should know. I’ve been doing it since 1972.

I awoke on the Sunday with my head full of plans for the day ahead. Unfortunately, Parky wasn’t accompanying me on my drive north. At 8.45am, I set off for Wigan. The weather was murky outside. I had prepared for the worst; it may be August, but rain was predicted in Lancashire.

Without Parky sitting alongside, my mind was left to wander. Rather than concentrating on new players and new formations, I set off on a train of thought which saw me loosely planning away trips for later in the autumn.

I quickly chose the music for the first hour’s travel; New Order’s 2001 album “Get Ready.”

Pretty apt.

Next up were Stiff Little Fingers and then The Style Council. The rain started to fall as I passed Stoke-on-Trent but the traffic was flowing well. The 200 miles from Somerset to Lancashire took me three-and-a-half hours. It was a pretty relaxing time. The music was helping me kick back and relax.

Don’t Worry About A Thing.

I looked down at the passenger seat and spotted that the ticket for the day’s game was just £20. The low price amazed me. It had cost me £10 to see Frome Town play the day before.

Just twenty quid to see Chelsea play? Get in.

Surprisingly, I hadn’t seen a single Chelsea car on my solitary drive north. As I slowly edged along the last few miles of my journey, I spotted a Sunday football match taking place to my left. Young mothers pushed prams and teenagers darted in and out of the rain against a back-drop of typical red-brick terraced houses. It did not seem feasible that the European Champions were due to play less than a mile away in an hour’s time. It seemed that the town of Wigan was turning its back on us.

I parked-up and soon spotted four friends from Yate, just outside Bristol, making their way to the DW Stadium. Tim was wearing the classic British summer combo of shorts with rain jacket. The weather was horrible; it was muggy and still raining. I had to wear a rain jacket and baseball cap to defeat the elements.

This was my ninth straight visit to Wigan’s neat, but rather bland stadium; eight in the league, one in the F.A. Cup. It seems that we either play them on our very first game of the season (2005 and 2012), our first away game (2008 and 2010) or in the depths of winter. This is probably just as well; by the time April and May come around, the pitch seems to be pretty ropey, since Wigan Warriors play rugby league on the pitch, too. With four previous trips to Wigan already described in these match reports – including a history of Northern Soul, rugby league and Wigan’s often-lampooned support – there was nowhere else to go. However, I have myself to blame; in all of these trips to Wigan, I have never ever ventured into the town centre since the easily-accessible stadium is on the western approach to the town.

One day I’ll make it.

Despite my 900th game, there were no celebratory alcoholic drinks for me. I made my way into the steep stand, set to house over 4,500 travelling supporters. It didn’t take long for Alan and Gary to arrive. Alan handed me my QPR ticket.

Wigan – £20.
QPR – £55.

Pah.

I quickly popped down to chat with Gill and Graeme in the front row. Gill and I agreed that, since Munich, nothing – really – matters any more.

“We’ve seen the best Gill. Whatever happens, happens. It doesn’t matter. It’s all good.”

And this has long been my approach; enjoy the moment, enjoy the journey, support the team, rally the troops, savour every last fcuking second of it.

As with every trip to Wigan, the match DJ was spinning some quality soul classics during the pre-match kick-in. The team was announced with Ryan Bertrand included on the left, with Eden Hazard moving over to the right to replace the missing Ramires.

Our 2012-2013 began with the massed ranks in the north stand reminding the world of Chelsea Football Club’s amazing achievement of the previous campaign.

“Campiones, campiones, ole, ole, ole.”

“We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

My pre-season had put me in good stead; my voice was roaring with deep resonance. All that croakiness in New York had toughened me up.

As the singing continued, a delightful turn on a sixpence from Eden Hazard was followed by a fine through ball for Branislav Ivanovic to take in his stride. A touch to his right and then a low drive at the near post, similar to Ramires’ effort in the F.A. Cup Final.

1-0 to the European Champions and not even two minutes had passed.

I roared and turned towards an equally exuberant Alan. As one, we blurted out –

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

Within five more minutes, we were 2-0 up. Eden Hazard was manhandled, not once but twice, in the box and Frank Lampard struck from the resultant penalty. It wasn’t a brilliant kick; far too close to the diving Al Habsi, but Frank rarely misses.

Phew.

The Chelsea support roared the team on and the Wigan fans looked crestfallen.

In truth, we didn’t really threaten the Wigan goal on many more occasions in the first-half. Wigan themselves proved to be the more aggressive. They certainly had the better of the second quarter. Old Chelsea boy Franco di Santo – their player of the year last season – had numerous heading duels with Ivanovic, going close with one effort. On 37 minutes, Chelsea target Victor Moses cut inside and unleashed a flashing shot which zipped across the box, but Petr Cech managed to deflect it for a corner.

Nice to hear a song for the hero of Munich.

“Didier Drogba – tra la la la la.”

He now joins the ranks of previous players who have songs sung about them at games, along with Dennis Wise, Peter Osgood, Gianfranco Zola, Tommy Baldwin and – er – Robert Fleck.

The Chelsea choir then turned our attention to a possible new signing –

“We’ll see you next week. We’ll see you next week. Victor Moses – we’ll see you next week.”

Classic.

Wigan’s pressure continued and a failed block by David Luiz set up di Santo, but he seemed to take an extra touch as he bore in on goal. Petr Cech was able to narrow the angles, spread his body and block. It is, actually, a trademark move from Big Pete. He is still a fantastic ‘keeper.

There was consistent fouling from the home team during the first-half, but Luiz was the first to be booked. I thought Mikel did well in the first period; breaking up play, but then keeping possession, unlike at Villa Park the previous week. Wigan’s Shaun Maloney looked lively. In truth, he is just the sort of player that I am always drawn to.

Small, waif-like, a dribble here, a body swerve there.

Did someone mention Pat Nevin?

At half-time, I descended into the concourse below the seats and was hit by a wall of heat. It was like a sauna. Beers were being consumed, songs were being sung. The Munich honeymoon, halted previously, was back in full flow.

Soon into the second half, the song of the afternoon was aired for the first time. It hinted at the infamous song in Genk, but now flourished with new words and new meaning.

“We know what we are.
We know what we are.
European Champions.
We know what we are.”

Oh, how I loved that. We sang it clearly. We sang it magnificently, with perfect cadence and diction.

Good work, troops.

Two chances came and went. An Ashley Cole effort was ballooned high and wide. Then, Fernando Torres ran onto a lovely ball, but appeared to be tugged from behind just as he poked out a toe to send the ball goal wards beyond the on-rushing Al Habsi. We begged the ball to cross the line, but a towering Wigan defender recovered to kick the ball away. Torres lay distraught in the box for a few seconds, but we immediately rewarded him with instant acclaim.

“Torres! Torres! Torres! Torres!”

The new boy Oscar replaced Eden Hazard; God, he looks young. Not long into the game, Torres ably set up our new Brazilian with a fine cushioned header into his path. Oscar struck the ball early, but the low drive was narrowly wide. For the rest of the game, he struggled, but we’ll give him time.

Ryan Bertrand – despite his Munich appearance, he hardly featured in many fans’ starting XIs over the pre-season – grew in confidence as the game progressed. He hardly put a foot wrong. His performance was one of the plus points from the game.

In truth, we faded fast in the last quarter and Wigan looked the better team again. Ivanovic, especially, seemed to be caught out of position on a few occasions. We had a few nice moves, but it would have been no surprise to me if Wigan had scored in the closing minutes. In the end, we hung on.

Poor Wigan. They really must hate us. Apart from their 3-1 win in September 2009, they always give us a hard game and yet usually end up with nothing. All of these away games – all nine of them since 2005 – are starting to blend into one.

I got soaked on the fifteen minute march back to the car. I was soon on the M6, listening to The Smiths, then The Killers, then Depeche Mode. At Stafford, the clouds cleared and the sun appeared. Over a section of a few miles, the M6 took me right into the heart of the English countryside, with bales of hay neatly stacked in one field, sheep grazing in another. It was an idyllic agrarian landscape. It was as if the motorway had played tricks on me and had escorted me back to the mid eighteenth century. The rest of the drive south was very enjoyable. The sun brought out the best of the late summer evening.

Back home in Somerset, it was still shining as I pulled into my drive at 7.45pm.

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