Tales From New Year’s Day

Posted on January 2, 2015 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 1 January 2015.

A game on New Year’s Day is a rather rare event for me. An away game on New Year’s Day is even rarer. In all of my one thousand-and-counting Chelsea games, ahead of the game in darkest North London, I have only ever attended one other such game; last year at Southampton. This figure surprised me. Why have I not attended more? Maybe there simply haven’t been too many more. Additionally, in years past I guess that I was unable to attend due to reasons of geography and financial constraints.

A match which never was sticks in my mind, and which would have been my first-ever away game on the first day of the year, was our game at Upton Park in 1986. I had attended the New Year’s Eve celebrations in Trafalgar Square – on one of the last occasions when you could take alcohol along, what a laugh – and was staying, as fate would have it, at a college mate’s digs in Tottenham. Feeling rather delicate, I ventured by tube to our game at West Ham (inevitably I think it was an 11am kick-off), but with a few underground stops to go, I heard – somehow – that the game had been postponed due to a hard pitch. I returned crestfallen back to North London. If only there were mobile phones in 1986; my mate Alan diverted, along with a hundred more Chelsea, to Highbury for the Arsenal vs. Tottenham derby. According to Alan, in a story that he has joyously recounted on many occasions, everyone split up while entering the Clock End, but then gathered together amid the away contingent. A loud “Chelsea” sent the Spurs fans scarpering. The Chelsea fans then had their own little section, cordoned-off by police, to enable them to watch the game.

Thinking back… Arsenal vs. Spurs and West Ham vs. Chelsea on the same day.

Shudder.

So, after this rather disappointing turn of events, I had to wait twenty-nine years for my first-ever London away game on New Year’s Day.

I drove up with Parky. It was a miserable grey day outside, but there was a noticeable buzz as we headed east. There were plans for him to connect with a ticket during the day; he had missed out, again, on an away ticket, but we had hopes for a positive conclusion. He had also missed out on a Swansea away ticket under excruciating circumstances.

He had entered the Chelsea website page at 7.02am, had the ticket in his “basket” yet there was an error which asked him to reconfirm his postcode. By the time he had re-entered the info, the away allocation for the game had sold out. How infuriating. He ‘phoned the club, but was met with empty platitudes.

What a load of bollocks.

So – if anyone has a spare for Swansea.

At just before 2.30pm, we strolled in to The Courtfield, an old-fashioned boozer, opposite Earl’s Court tube station where we met Mike from NYC and his family. The Courtfield seems to be where many away fans now “mob up” before games at The Bridge. A pint there, we then headed into town. With an hour to kill, I fancied visiting an old haunt, The Round Table, between Leicester Square and Covent Garden. After games in the 1988-1989 season, I often used to meet up with some non-Chelsea college mates in this snug little pub for some post-game revelry. It is where I celebrated our promotion after beating Leeds United in April 1989 with a few mates.

A couple of pints of Staropramen went down well and I was reveling in being able to do something different on a Chelsea match day. We spoke about a few games at White Hart Lane. Mike, Parky and I all went to the 1987 game and we spoke about our own memories of that match. We had begun the season with two straight wins and we took 10,000 to Tottenham that afternoon. It was a fantastic show of strength. Mike had not seen us play since 1981, having lived in the US in that time, and remembered being dumbfounded at the sight of policeman searching hardened Chelsea types for celery.

We laughed.

“Ah yes, celery…bet that was an odd thing to see. Ten thousand there, they kept opening new pens under The Shelf. Nico Bloody Claesen.”

Mike was now with his two young boys, Mikey and Matthew, having said “goodbye” to his wife at Earl’s Court. This would be the boys’first visit to Tottenham. At 4.15pm, we set off for Liverpool Street. At Holborn we passed twenty chaps on a platform as we changed trains. They chanted;

“We are Chelsea. We caught the wrong train.”

At Liverpool Street, we caught an over-ground train to White Hart Lane. A text came through to say that Frank Lampard had scored a winner for City.

Ugh.

Time was now pressing on. We rolled in to the station at 5.10pm. After a five minute yomp, we arrived outside the away turnstiles. A mob of Chelsea squeezed past a police escort. Sirens were wailing. Scuffles were heard, and then witnessed. The atmosphere was tense. Still no ticket for Parky. I bumped in to a few mates. Tottenham fans sauntered past.

“Yidarmeeeee.”

Whatever.

It was 5.25pm.

Time to go in.

“Parky – see you back at Earl’s Court.”

There was a quick discussion by stewards about my camera.

“That should be handed in.”

“I’ve ran out of tags.”

Result.

Rush, rush, rush.

Up those damned stairs.

Bumped in to Joe from Chicago.

“Hello Chris.”

Familiar faces everywhere I looked.

I just missed kick-off, but by only a minute at the most.

We began well enough and I honestly thought that we dominated the first half-an hour. And the Chelsea crowd, bolstered by copious amounts of Carling, Fosters, Guinness, Stella, Fullers, Peroni, Carlsberg, San Miguel, Kronenburg, Staropramen, Becks, Amstel and Grolsch were in fine form.

A lively opening period saw chances for both teams but we took a deserved lead after around a quarter of an hour. A Tottenham corner was superbly claimed by Courtois, who then released the ball early. Eden Hazard attacked down the right. He twisted and turned deep inside the box before shooting low. The shot rebounded off the base of the far post straight towards Oscar. His shot was turned in from very close range by Diego Costa.

We erupted.

Diego Costa reeled away in front of the home support in the Paxton Road.

Get in.

We enjoyed a lovely spell and had Spurs on the ropes. Their support quietened, while ours remained strong. An appeal for a handball on Vertonghen in the Spurs box was waved away. Oscar rolled a ball wide.

Then, out of nothing, Harry Kane worked an opening for himself and skipped past a few unconvincing challenges. His low shot swept past Courtois.

We were dumbfounded.

1-1.

We tried to attack as we had been doing for the previous thirty minutes, but Tottenham suddenly found extra drive. Then, calamity. Two goals in the last two minutes of the half changed the game and we were left to scratch our heads at the break. Eriksen played in Chadli down below us and his low shot evaded Courtois. The ball slammed the far post, but Rose was on hand to score, with at least two Chelsea defenders ending up on the floor, embarrassed, in his wake.

Then a rash challenge by Gary Cahill on Kane left referee Dowd with no option but to signal a penalty. Townsend despatched it.

We were 3-1 down.

At Tottenham.

Happy New Year.

(Outside, in a parallel universe, Parky was told to move on. He popped into “The Corner Pin” and there were a few Chelsea present. They then made their way back to the station. Parky was enamoured with the rich display of fauna and flora on display in this delightful suburb of London, to say nothing of the varied nature of the area’s exemplary architecture. He met many interesting locals, who were simply enchanted that he was among a band of visiting Chelsea fans. Sad to leave this welcoming part of London’s cityscape, Parky reluctantly headed back in to town.)

The fact that we had dominated most of the first-period and yet found ourselves behind caused much comment at the break.

“We just need to be more clinical. The second goal is always a damned struggle at so many away games. Every team, playing at home, regardless of who they are, will get a ten minute spell. They will always get a chance. We need to kill teams off.”

Mourinho replaced the quiet Oscar with Ramires, pushing Fabregas further up-field.

We got behind the team from the first minute of the second-half and hoped for better things. Ramires was involved in a move which resulted, sadly, in a wild finish from Hazard. After only six minutes of play in the second-half, our night caved in. Chadli pushed the ball in to that man Kane, who struck another low shot past Courtois. I was right in line with the path of the ball.

Hate it when that happens.

4-1.

A fair few Chelsea left at this stage. This match report is not dedicated to them.

Tottenham now appeared stronger and leaner and I had visions of more goals. To be fair, we kept plugging away and I roared when Hazard played a fine one-two with Fabregas before slamming past Loris.

“COME ON.”

I had visions of another 4-4, like in 2008.

Robbie Bloody Keane.

We fancied Drogba, or Remy, to partner Diego Costa, so it was with surprise when we saw the manager replace the poor Willian with Salah. This seemed very odd. However, we kept going. Sadly many Chelsea fans continued an exodus. We came close. I didn’t give up hope. I urged the team on.

“One more goal boys.”

Sadly the next goal, eerily similar to their previous goal, went to the home team on a rare attack. Another low shot past Thibaut, another one in at the far post, another one that I saw all the way.

5-2.

More fans departed.

Un-Chelsea.

We still pushed on, with more efforts on their goal. We surely out-shot them throughout the night. It was our fragility at the back, unheard of in previous Mourinho campaigns, which allowed us to buckle.

It was a rotten night.

A John Terry goal, to make 5-3, was hardly celebrated.

Ugh.

It was a horrible walk back to the station. On the waiting train, there was a silent “thumbs up – you alright?” to a Chelsea friend. The Spurs fans were ecstatic.

Annoyingly, a Tottenham fan played a Cup Final song from 1982 on his phone.

Bloody Chas And Bloody Dave.

I overheard the same fan then have a conversation with his mate; he wasn’t sure who his team were playing in the FA Cup, just days away.

Fackinell.

Back at Earl’s Court, I arrived at “Salvo’s” mere twenty seconds after Parky. In times of pain, there is always pizza. Mike and the boys arrived, annoyed with our performance, but equally fed up with the fans who had vacated the away end before the final whistle. The two boys were equally excited about a London derby and dismayed by a loss. I became suddenly sanguine and philosophical –

“We win together. We lose together.”

I was most heartened to hear Mikey repeat this back to me on two separate occasions, smiling, as if he had been taught a meaningful lesson. It made me happy.

We said our farewells.

At 10pm, we headed home.

Tales From Johnny Neal’s Blue And White Army

Posted on December 5, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 December 2014.

In my book, there is no bigger game each season than Chelsea vs. Tottenham. This was a match that I had been relishing for a while. Midway through my working day, the excitement was rising with each “match-day thought” that entered my mind. There were the usual nerves, too. I’m more nervous about Spurs at home than any other. There’s that unbeaten run – stretching back to 1990-1991 – which needed to be preserved. I am sure that other Chelsea fans would only be happy at 9.30pm with a win, but I was a little more pragmatic;

Anything but a loss please Ye Footballing Gods.

That is not to say that I was unduly worried too much.

The only negative thought fluttering in and out of my consciousness as the hours raced by was the thought that our team would be missing Diego Costa.

I wondered who Jose Mourinho would turn to.

Didier Drogba?

Loic Remy?

Only time would tell.

When I left the office at 3.30pm, there was a supreme sense of joy that I would soon be on the road with three good friends – Glenn, PD and Lord Parky – and an evening’s football lie ahead.

To paraphrase Tommy Johnson – “Tottenham At Home – Love It.”

PD, bless him, kindly volunteered for driving duties and so I was able to relax a little. The four of us had enjoyed the From The Jam gig in Frome ten days previously and our spirits were buoyed by a cracking ‘eighties compilation CD which accompanied our trip east. I remember mentioning to somebody at the gig that there was a spell a few years ago that as soon as we hit the traffic at Hammersmith, The Jam would always seem to be playing on my CD player. On this occasion, PD had changed the CD and to a “Suggs Selection” and, yes – lo and behold – as soon as we neared the church underneath the M4, “Beat Surrender” came on.

“Come on boy, come on girl.
Succumb to the beat surrender.
Come on boy, come on girl.
Succumb to the beat surrender.

All the things that I care about.
Are packed into one punch.
All the things that I’m not sure about.
Are sorted out at once.

And as it was in the beginning.
So shall it be in the end.
That bullshit is bullshit.
It just goes by different names.”

We were parked just before 6pm and The Goose was predictably heaving.

As soon as I walked in, I was pleased to meet up with Danny and his girlfriend Sonja. I got to know Danny , who hails from the wonderfully named Rancho Cucamonga in California – through my trips to the US over the past ten seasons and I first met him – to talk to – in Texas in 2009. This was his third trip over to England to see the boys play – he was at Sunderland on Saturday – but this was Sonja’s inaugural visit to London and England. I introduced them to my closest Chelsea mates and I had to smile when Sonja exclaimed that she was the “token female.” I quickly looked up and scanned the pub. Of course, Sonja wasn’t wrong. In a pub full of Chelsea fans, no more than 5% were female. I presume this came as a slight shock to Sonja. It reminded me of a similar comment by another American female last season who was amazed by the lack of the fairer sex in and around the pubs at Chelsea.

I quickly remembered some of my many visits to various baseball stadia – plus the Chelsea games I have seen too – in the US over the years. There were, indeed, many more females at the games in the US than there are at football in the UK. No time for too much social commentary on this, but I would suggest that this shows that football is still predominantly a male preserve in the UK.

In Chelsea’s case, it remains a preserve of middle-aged men with receding hairlines and a predilection for trainers, polo-shirts, lager and taking the piss out of each other.

Proper.

As we left the pub on a cold, but thankfully not bitter, evening, we all wanted to make sure that we were in the stadium well in advance of the minute of appreciation and applause for our former manager John Neal, who sadly passed away at the age of 82 the day after our last home game against West Brom.

There was a nice piece devoted to John Neal in the night’s programme. He was a much-loved man by us Chelsea fans of a certain generation. I only met him in person on one occasion. Back in the autumn of 1995, Chelsea celebrated the 25^thanniversary of the 1970 F.A. Cup win with a pre-match gathering of former players in the bar which used to be called “Drake’s” (named after our 1955 Championship-winning manager). In those days, only CPO share-holders were allowed in to “Drake’s” (which nestles under the north-east corner of the Matthew Harding, but is renamed these days and is, presumably, one of the many corporate suites at Stamford Bridge). On that particular day – before a game with Southampton – Chelsea legends such as Peter Osgood, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Bonetti and Ron Harris attracted the attention of the Chelsea fans in attendance. Away in a quiet booth – I can picture it now – sat John Neal and his assistant manager Ian McNeill, quietly eating a meal, generally being ignored by the majority. A few fans dropped in to say “hello” – I am sure that it was John Neal’s first visit back to Stamford Bridge since his early retirement in the mid-‘eighties – but I was shocked that these two figures from our relatively recent past were being generally shunned.

My only conclusion was that the Chelsea fans present were so in awe of the heralded 1970 team, that the appearance of John and Ian was – wrongly, of course – overlooked.

I made sure that I said a few words of welcome and gratitude and was very pleased that they allowed me to have my photograph taken with the quietly spoken former manager and his trusted Scottish assistant. I did – to be blunt – wonder why the two of them had been invited on a day when a different team was being honoured. In retrospect, the two should have had been the centrepiece of a ten year anniversary of the 1983-1984 season a year previously, but that is a moment lost forever.

Looking back, John Neal had a very mixed reign as Chelsea manager. He joined us after a spell as the Middlesbrough manager, and his teams were relatively steady, occasionally entertaining, but playing to low attendances in the First Division. Chelsea, in 1981, were dire and entrenched in the Second Division. I remember being hardly enamoured by his appointment. I can easily recollect attending John Neal’s first ever league game as Chelsea manager in August 1981 and the photograph of him on the front cover of the programme, standing proudly by the newly-adorned Chelsea crest above the tunnel, is quite an iconic image. After two years of poor performances, narrowly avoiding relegation in 1983, it is – with hindsight – a miracle that Chelsea maintained the services of John Neal over the summer of 1983.

1983-1984 was a different story of course. We plundered the lower leagues for talent during the close-season and John Neal’s true worth as a man-manager bore fruit from the very first game. For anyone who was at the 5-0 annihilation of promotion favourites Derby County, wasn’t it fantastic?

Kerry Dixon scored twice, we triumphed 5-0 and the tube was literally bouncing back to Earl’s Court after that one.

John Neal – for that 1983-1984 season alone – must rank as one of my favourite Chelsea managers.

It is a shame that we never saw him back at Stamford Bridge over the past twenty years or so. I believe that he suffered from dementia towards the end.

The Boys In Blue From Division Two would have loved to have said “thanks” one more time.

Thankfully, the timings were fine and I was inside Stamford Bridge with five minute to spare. As I stepped inside the seating area, I noticed that the main flood lights had been dimmed and, instead, the advertising boards were shining bright along with smaller strip lighting in and around the stadium. It was a scene which was quite similar to the pre-match routine at Manchester City a few seasons back, with the lights dimmed and blue moons appearing on the TV screens.

It looked stunning to be honest – other worldly – though my immediate reaction was “what the bloody hell is this, more contrived nonsense?”

The two teams appeared from the tunnel, but the lights were still dimmed. Only when all the players were walking on the deep green sward of the pitch were the main lights turned on.

Another full house, though the Tottenham section took forever to fill.

The two sets of players assembled in the centre-circle and Neil Barnett spoke. The minute of applause in memory of John Neal, bless him, was loud and heart-felt. A chant of “Johnny Neal’s Blue And White Army” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.

God bless you, John.

Of course, Jose Mourinho had decided on Didier Drogba to lead the line. My choice would have been the nimbler Loic Remy, but – once again – what do I know?

Right then, game on, and a near twenty-five year record to defend.

We had agreed in the chuckle bus on the drive to London that Tottenham were a “hot and cold” team thus far this season. In the first twenty minutes, they were warmer than us. Harry Kane (“he’s one of our own” sang the away fans, as if it mattered) threatened Thibaut Courtois’ goal with a header which rattled the crossbar. The same player twisted away from Gary Cahill and screwed a shot wide. My pre-match nerves were seemingly vindicated. It took a while for a Chelsea player to threaten the Spurs goal; a Cesc Fabregas shot curled into Loris’ clasp.

At around 8.02pm, I decided to take a comfort break.

At around 8.04pm, I approached the refreshment stand with a pie in my sights. I glanced up at the TV set above the servers (blimey, imagine that in 1983 – a TV set by the tea bar) and spotted Eden Hazard clean through. Before he had struck the ball, I heard the roar of the crowd. The TV had a split-second time delay and I then saw the ball flash past Loris into the net.

I returned back to Alan and Glenn with a chicken and mushroom pie and a very big smile on my face.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Before I could let it all sink in, Oscar had tee’d up Didier – mmm, maybe offside? – who calmly slotted the ball past Loris.

2-0 to Chelsea and my magic pie had done the trick.

I confided in Alan…”you know, to be honest, over the years…there have been times when Tottenham have played pretty well here. How they have never beaten us here is a mystery. And here they are again. Playing well, but now 2-0 down. I know we say we hate Spurs, but they must fucking loathe us.”

Alan agreed.

And then we both smiled.

The highs and lows of the rest of the half?

The high was a sublime volleyed cross field ball by Fabregas to Hazard – I think – which was pinpoint perfect and with just the right amount of dip and fade.

The low was me finishing my magic pie; no more goals ensued.

The noise was pretty decent in the first forty-five minutes, though the volume noticeably fell away towards the end.

At half time, two stalwarts from the John Neal era were on the pitch with Neil Barnett; Pat Nevin and Nigel Spackman. Nevin is still much revered, Spackman not so, after his sporadic comments about his spell at Liverpool and a few thinly-disguised digs at Chelsea.

Neil then spoke about “two girls from America – Lisa and Sonja (yes, that Sonja) who are at Stamford Bridge for the first time tonight, with their blokes Joe and Danny (yes, that Danny)…enjoy the match.” There was a picture of Joe and Lisa in the programme; I remembered Joe from a few pre-season tours too.

A nice touch. I texted Danny to see if Sonja was OK.

“Sonja is singing more than the chaps in the row in front.”

Good work.

Prior to the second-half, Kurt Zouma replaced Gary Cahill, who had battled on after an early collision with Vertonghen, but who was obviously unable to resume.

Nemanja Matic, possibly my player of the season thus far, was stupidly booked for a clumsy challenge on Kane.

“Silly Alan. Just silly. We’re two-up, for heavens’ sake. What’s the likelihood of them scoring from that move? 5%? Silly challenge.”

The Spurs dirge “Oh When The Spurs…” was roundly booed, but there wasn’t a great deal of Chelsea noise to take its place.

Tottenham were continuing to have a lot of the ball, but on the instances when we picked them off and moved forward we just looked more cohesive. Drogba shot from outside the box, but it was an easy save for Loris. Jose then replaced Didier with Remy. We enjoyed some sublime twists and shimmies from Eden Hazard throughout the night. I enjoyed the energy of Willian too. With around twenty minutes remaining, Dave played in Remy inside the box. Showing great strength to hold off Vertonghen, he nimbly side-stepped a challenge and passed the ball into the Spurs goal.

3-0 and the game was safe.

Fantastic stuff.

1 December 1990 to 3 December 2014.

25 games, 25 seasons, undefeated.

15-10-0

In the south-east corner, there was a fire-drill.

Happy days.

We saw off the last minutes of the game with the minimum of fuss, though the news of Manchester City’s 4-1 win at Sunderland was disappointing. As, of course, was the news that Arsenal had beaten Southampton 1-0 with a goal in the very last minute.

Not to worry. We’re the ones to catch.

Let’s keep this beautiful thing going.

Tales From The Second-Half Specialists

Posted on March 12, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 8 March 2014.

I drove through the quiet streets of my home town just before midday. There he was; standing on the crossroads by Victoria Park, the agreed meeting-place. It was a classic sight and I have to say that it made me chuckle; black Crombie, Chelsea shirt, jeans and brown Doctor Martens with yellow laces and short-cropped hair.

Classic PD.

A few moments later, I collected LP – a Lyle & Scott pullover, jeans, jacket and Adidas trainers if anyone is wondering – outside The Cornerhouse pub.

We were on our way.

I was buzzing about this game with Tottenham. The weather was bloody marvellous and we had the entire day ahead of us. Very soon into the drive east, my two passengers were working their way into several cans of “Strongbow dark fruits cider” and the laughter was booming. I think it caused my car to shake on a few occasions.

I ate up the miles, they drank up the cider.

“The Goose” was predictably packed. We gathered together in our usual corner. Outside, the beer garden was rammed; it felt like the first day of spring. The usual suspects were gathered together. Everyone was pleased to see PD once more. News came through of around fifteen mouthy Tottenham fans alighting at West Brompton, several Chelsea pubs emptying and the away fans getting run from arsehole to breakfast time within a few fleeting moments. I’ve never been an advocate of beating seven bells out of someone simply because they happen to follow a different football club than me, but such brazen behaviour by away fans within Chelsea territory was always going to end in tears. Occasionally, away fans drink in “The Goose” and there is usually no trouble, but I can never remember any London teams’ supporters doing so. It’s simply not the “done thing.” For fans of other clubs, it is a safe haven in the main. I can only think of a few instances over the past fifteen years when away fans have tried to make a name for themselves and “storm the gates.” In such circumstances – QPR and Leicester spring to mind – they have been easily repelled.

With the game kicking-off at 5.30pm, it was obvious that many had made a day of it. We only arrived on the scene at 2.30pm; others had been “at it” for hours. The beers were going down well, though I limited myself to only a couple. There is always a lovely buzz about Chelsea Tottenham. It doesn’t require any explaining really.

Simon arrived and was soon to utter the words “I’m worried about today.”

I told him to “hush.” This, although not a bad team, was far from one of the strongest Tottenham teams to come to Chelsea over the years. Everyone knows that we have enjoyed a magnificent home run of games against the once glamorous North Londoners since our last defeat in the league against them in early 1990.

The record has gone on and on and on.

A win later in the evening would stretch the run to twenty-four beautiful games; I’ve been lucky – I have seen all but two of the previous twenty-three. To tell the whole story, of the thirty Chelsea vs. Tottenham games that I have witnessed at Stamford Bridge, I have only seen two Spurs victories. A meek 0-2 loss during our awful start to the 1986-1987 season was the last time. That was bad – the gate was only 21,576, the atmosphere awful and our First Division future seemed uncertain.

However, the only other Tottenham victory in all of my visits was worse. Much worse.

In 1978-1979, Chelsea were atrocious. Although we had drawn 2-2 at White Hart Lane in the August sun, our autumn was poor and the winter looked bleak. Tottenham, newly-promoted after a solitary season in the Second Division, had shook the football world with the double signing of Argentinians Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa in the summer. On Saturday 18 November 1978, I travelled up to Stamford Bridge with my parents. There was a huge buzz about the game. It was the usual routine; Dad would park the car at Ealing Common, which was followed by the ride in by tube, a few souvenirs and a programme, the wait outside the club offices to try to get player autographs and then in to our East Lower seats by just before 2pm, my excitement rising with every minute. On this particular day, there was a running battle between the two sets of fans on the large sweeping terraces before the game. I can specifically remember a scene opposite where the West Stand met the North terrace. Thousands of fans were separated by the royal blue fence which formed a natural barrier between the two stands. I can vividly remember the a long section of the fence – maybe about a forty foot stretch – being pushed and pulled as fans battled to get at each other. There had been similar crowd disturbances at several games that I had witnessed in my first few games as a youngster at Stamford Bridge (Tottenham 1974, Cardiff 1976, Millwall 1977 – I could certainly pick’em) but this memory is my most vivid memory of all of these occasions. Our team wasn’t bad on paper, but it never gelled for us all season. In front of the ‘keeper John Phillips were two poor full-backs Graham Wilkins and David Stride with Ron Harris and Steve Wicks in the middle. Our midfield consisted of Garry Stanley, Duncan Mackenzie and Ray Wilkins with Tommy Langley, Ken Swain and Clive Walker in attack. Our manager was Ken Shellito, a loyal Chelsea servant who took over from Eddie McCreadie the previous year. A stunning Tommy Langley bicycle-kick gave us a 1-0 lead, but Spurs broke my heart and came back to win 3-1. There were simply thousands of away supporters in the North Stand that day and I remember being crestfallen that there were so many Spurs fans to my right. The gate was 41,594. There must have been 10,000 Spurs fans there. I can still hear their “We Are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, We Are Tottenham, From The Lane” to this day. It was a horrible day.

Bloody Tottenham.

However, despite this dark memory, we have dished untold misery on Tottenham since 1978.

They must bloody despise us.

Good.

That’s just the way it should be.

It was smashing to see Neil, visiting from Guernsey, for the first time for a while. He had watched the Three Bridges vs. Guernsey Isthmian League game at lunchtime. One day, I’m hoping for my own personal double-header with a Frome Town lunchtime game in the London area and then a Chelsea game at The Bridge. It was clear that Parky, especially, was enjoying the drinking session. I wondered what state he might be in at the end of the game.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, all was well in the world. It was a stunningly gorgeous London afternoon and Chelsea were playing Tottenham.

Bliss.

Inside the stadium, just before kick-off, I noted the reappearance of a relatively new flag being draped from the opposite end of the MHU; hanging from the balcony, it was being held by fans in the MHL, stretching it, to accentuate its simple message.

No words, no text, just a huge royal blue flag with the white outline of the European Cup in the middle.

The greatest memory of them all and one which causes even more pain for Tottenham supporters everywhere. Job done.

Tottenham had brought the maximum 3,000 away fans; a little different to 1978, but such are the rules these days. Hardly any flags though; certainly none with the European Cup on them. I was unaware that Fernando Torres had been injured in the pre-match. Our team still looked pretty strong. Frank Lampard was recalled in midfield. Tottenham’s team has changed a little over the past couple of seasons; the names Naughton and Bentaleb meant little to me. The presence of the invigorated Adebayor worried me, though.

The game began and the away fans, maybe not surprisingly, were making the greater din. It’s the same when we go to N17. It’s the same everywhere. Within the first five minutes, with the two teams trading a few jabs, Chelsea broke at speed down the right with Eto’o feeding Eden Hazard who rounded Lloris. A certain goal looked like the only outcome, but Hazard seemed to touch the ball a little too far just as he was taking aim and the ball spun just wide of the unguarded Tottenham goal. I jumped and screamed in pain.

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhh.”

Tottenham then seemed to enjoy plenty of possession and we struggled to get a foothold. Bentaleb’s shot went wide after we were caught out. Then Sandro forced a superb save from Petr Cech. There were few real shots on goal in the first-half. Samuel Eto’o evened-up the chances but didn’t threaten Lloris’ goal with a shot which again went wide.

The Chelsea crowd seemed a little subdued, but there was still time to remind the away fans that we’re the only team in London, only team in London, only team in London with a European Cup.

At half-time, there was frustration in the home ranks. It hadn’t been too impressive at all. The sunny weather gently eased and the early-evening light (almost a little misty) created a strange atmosphere. It had the feel of a famous Stamford Bridge late-season European game. We hoped for better things in the second period. Mourinho replaced Lampard with Oscar. No problems with that.

What a second-half.

Of all the various ways in which we have beaten Tottenham at home since 1990 – my favourite, by the way being George Weah’s “off the plane from Milan, off the bench” winner in 2000 – none could have prepared us for what occurred during the second-half on Saturday 8^th March 2014.

Calamity One – 55 minutes.

Vertongen, under pressure, slipped and unwisely chose to pass the ball back to Lloris. His back-pass was wayward and ended up at the feet of a raiding Eto’o, who advanced and slammed the ball through the legs of the Spurs ‘keeper. I was already up and jumping when the ball hit the back of the net.

Alan, who had been in the middle of a Nelson Riddle when Eto’o had scored, quickly re-joined PD and me, full of smiles.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Calamity Two – 59 minutes.

Samuel Eto’o burst through into the Spurs penalty box and slumped to the floor after a challenge from Kaboul. I wasn’t convinced that it was a penalty, but the referee Michael Oliver quickly pointed at the spot. The hapless Kaboul was soon given his marching orders. Oh boy. The game was dramatically lurching our way. Eden Hazard calmly stroked the ball past Lloris. The home support roared.

Calamity Three – 88 minutes.

With Chelsea in the ascendency and Tottenham second-best, an attempted defensive clearance from Sandro just diverted the ball into the path of substitute Demba Ba, who smacked the ball past Lloris from close range. This was met with joy and mirth in equal measure. There was more to come.

Calamity Four – 89 minutes.

Kyle Walker attempted to head the ball back to Lloris, but Ba was able to intercept it, hold off a rugged challenge from Lloris and stab the ball into the waiting net. By now, there was laughter mixed with pleasure, rather than wanton euphoria. Bloody hell. What a laugh. By this stage, the away end was virtually three-quarters empty. I couldn’t blame them.

I leaned over to Alan –

“Four? Skinned’em.”

As the players hugged at the final whistle, there was more unbridled joy at our humiliation of our arch rivals. It’s getting to the point now – and I say this with my tongue well and truly in my cheek – that I am starting to feel sorry for them.

After a repeat of our second-half turnaround against Fulham the previous week, Chelsea now sit seven points clear of the chasing pack. Jose Mourinho might still think that Manchester City are still ahead – nine points back, three games in hand – but I would rather have points in the bag. What’s that you say? Jose talks highly of Manchester City to put the pressure on them?

Ah, yes, of course.

This is a ridiculous season. Our record is now a highly impressive 20-6-3. We have endured just three losses in twenty-nine games. It is, unquestionably, championship form. However, who can argue that there have only been a handful of games this season where we have shown true championship form and quality? What an irony it would be that during the ultimate re-building, re-treading season of transition we actually go on to win the bloody thing.

Nine games to go.

Seat belts on.

It’s going to be a great ride.

Tales From The High Road

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 28 September 2013.

I was cutting this one a bit fine. Despite leaving home in good time, I only reached Seven Sisters tube station at midday. The Tottenham vs. Chelsea game was due to start in just forty-five minutes. I ascended the elevators and steps and soon found myself on the Tottenham High Road. The warm September weather surprised me; I threw my rain jacket behind my shoulder and began walking north. This was a well-travelled path for me. And for thousands of Chelsea fans like me.

One of my favourite passages of Chelsea prose over the years came from the pen of the venerable Chelsea scribe Scott Cheshire. After another F.A. Cup Semi-Final replay defeat against Arsenal in 1952, closely following on from the same scenario in 1950, I remember his words as he described the long and painful walk south from White Hart Lane, a Wembley Cup Final appearance having just evaporated in the spring air once more. In 1952 remember, Chelsea had not one item of silverware to our name while Arsenal were the great London rivals with trophies aplenty. Scott Cheshire spoke of the depressing familiarity of Chelsea failure as he trudged through puddles alongside hundreds of other typically disheartened Chelsea fans. The sense of longing and the yearning for a trophy struck a chord as I read his evocative words in the mid-‘nineties. It seems that every time I repeat my walk to White Hart Lane, past the Turkish cafes, the colourful Asian clothes shops, the hardware stores, the supermarkets, the pubs and the eastern European convenience stores, I am walking with Scott Cheshire and all of those hopeful Chelsea fans from a greyer time over sixty years ago.

The day had begun with a cursory flick through a few Facebook updates. The match in London N17 was clearly the main event. There were a few references to the publicity in the media about the continued presence of the “Y” word at Tottenham games. A couple of classic lines from a Nick Love film were popular too. I wonder why.

“Up and at em! Early start for Y word away!”

“Time to rise and shine. Spurts away beckons, see some of you at that wonderful part of London!”

“What else are ya gonna do on a Saturday. Tottenham away. Love it!!”

“Off to cheer on the only London club to win the European cup.”

“Off out to catch a rattler to meet up with some of the chaps for a couple before going on to cheer on London’s first and finest against the Ys.”

“What else ya gonna do on a Saturday? I know what I’d rather do! Tottenham away… luv it!!”

“En route to Three Point Lane.”

“Very soon I’ll be off to our biggest away of the season. Tottenham away.”

“Tottenham oy vey. Love it.”

I entered the fray –

“The Biggest Away Game Of The Season. Why? Tottenham. That’s Why.”

After the faux rivalry of Fulham the previous Saturday, this was the real deal, the main event. I have detailed our ridiculous dominance over our bitterest rivals since 1990 many times before; to go over old ground seems pointless.

Just like Tottenham.

As I headed north – “head down, avoid eye-contact, be wary” – police sirens wailed and a phalanx of police vans raced past. I wondered what was going on a mile or so to the north. A Tottenham versus Chelsea encounter, even after all these years, still has an edge. Old habits die hard. There may not be the widespread violence of the ‘eighties, but the intense dislike – yes, hate, even – is still there. It is now standard form for the main body of Chelsea to meet at The Railway and The Hamilton Hall down at Liverpool Street and then travel up to Northumberland Avenue. For me, travelling up from Somerset, the early kick-off made this a non-starter. I wasn’t worried. On the drive to London, my head was full of thoughts of Swindon last Tuesday, the War Zone at Tottenham and Steaua Bucharest away on the following Tuesday, to say nothing of the game in deepest Norfolk the following weekend.

Four consecutive away games; tick, tick, tick, tick.

I reached the corner of the High Road and Park Lane at 12.25pm. There were a few familiar faces in and amongst the Spurs fans, but I had no time to dwell. I skirted past a couple of police vans and soon joined the short line outside the entrance to the away section of White Hart Lane; prison blocks have been more architecturally appealing. Tottenham, of course, have been given the green light to build a new stadium just a hundred yards or so to the north of their current stadium. My conscience was pricked slightly; that’ll be three London team with new stadia, while Chelsea will be limited to 41,500. Will we be left behind, struggling to compete against the larger, potential, attendances at Arsenal, Spurs and West Ham? In October 2011, should I, and the other CPO shareholders, have meekly surrendered our certificates to the club so that they could earnestly begin a search for a new home? The answer is still no. I hear rumours, just whispered at the moment, of the Hammersmith & Fulham council desperately trying to entice the club into redeveloping the Stamford Bridge site and the club, again, whispered rumours, being slightly more willing to listen than in the past. I have a feeling that this one will run and run, like a Jesper Gronkjaer dribble. My stance on this has not wavered.

I, like many more Chelsea fans – as per the recent Chelsea Supporters Trust survey – believe that tradition and history, and that difficult to describe notion of “community and brotherhood” are just as important as an overpowering lust for silverware. Staying at Stamford Bridge is wrapped up in all of this.

I soon met up with Alan and Gary and we took our seats. There was little time for chat. The players soon appeared on the pitch. Chelsea, for the first time in a while, were back to wearing white socks at White Hart Lane. Spurs have changed their kit yet again. Last year’s all white kit has now given way to white / navy / navy. As a kid, it was always white / navy / white. Every two or three years, it seems that Spurs try a different combination. It would drive me crazy. What was I saying about tradition?

We reviewed the team. Would Ramires be playing wide right with both Lamps and Mikel starting? The three thousand Chelsea fans were in good voice as the match began. I always remember White Hart Lane, back when they longed to beat us, as having a very hostile atmosphere. In truth, the Spurs support before the whistle seemed subdued. I commented to a fellow fan that it is ironic that Fernando Torres is now many Chelsea supporters’ favoured striker.

“It’s a case of addition by subtraction.”

With Lukaku out of the picture, Torres’ stock has now risen.

The match began.

Down on the touchline, in the technical area, Jose stood, hands in pockets. He ignored the home fans’ shouts of “sit down Mourinho.” Villas-Boas, so often the fidgeting, crouching figure while at Chelsea, was nowhere to be seen. At times, it is hard to believe what has happened to Villas-Boas since the summer of 2011. He was lauded at the start. He looked the business. We were behind him. His demise was catastrophic. I still think he’ll be a good manager; hopefully not at Tottenham. Going in to the game, I was concerned. Spurs have been performing well – one of the form sides. We, however, had undoubtedly struggled. In reality, I would have been content with a point; Alan and Gal agreed.

We played well in the first quarter of an hour. What this really means is that we had more of the ball than I had expected. We weren’t subjected to raid after raid of home pressure. The home crowd were quiet. The away fans not so.

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

“We won 6-1, at The Lane.”

“You got battered, in Seville.”

The Willian song, repeated again and again.

It was seemingly going well.

Then, a quickfire break by Tottenham down their left. A pass from Eriksen to Soldado, who played in Sigursson. He took a touch and I willed John Terry, slightly out of position, to get a block as he lunged forward. The Spurs player rode the tackle and delicately flicked the ball past Cech.

Groan. Here we go again. We always seem to concede first at Tottenham. The home crowd came to life. All four parts of the ground soon joined in with a rendition of “Oh When The Spurs.”

It was loud. Very loud.

An Ivanovic block from Paulinho saved us further blushes just after.

Spurs dominated the rest of the half. We just didn’t gel. Oscar was particularly poor, with awful first touches and wayward passes. But the whole team seemed to be off the pace. The one highlight of the first-half was an exquisite chipped pass, with perfect fade, from David Luiz into the path of a raiding Ramires down the right flank. A Hazard shot – I was right behind it – was goal bound, but a home defender blocked. Tackles were starting to test the referee and Townsend was booked for diving. It was turning into a predictably tetchy affair. Spurs again cut through our defence like a hot knife through butter but Paulinho – I last saw him in Tokyo, the bugger – scraped the near post from inside the box. At the break, time for quiet contemplation.

I wished that we had played the ball earlier to Torres. I explained to Gary –

“Not hitting it at his chest, Gal, but just hit it into the space behind the central defenders. We haven’t done that once yet.”

Over to you Jose. Work your magic in the away dressing room.

Either Hazard or Oscar, in my opinion, could easily have made way for Juan Mata. Instead, Mikel was substituted, with Ramires dropping in alongside Frank.

Soon after the restart, Fernando Torres did ever so well to turn and beat a couple of Spurs defenders down the right flank – running towards us in the Park Lane – before sliding in a low pass, which unfortunately Oscar just failed to reach. The Spaniard soon became embroiled in a personal duel with Vertongen. He was soon booked for a foul, though I presumed that the referee Mike Dean had shown him the yellow card for placing his hands on Vertongen’s face.

Torres was now on fire and a gorgeous jink and strong run past Dawson meant that he only had Lloris to beat; his shot was blocked. Soon after, a long ball from Luiz was expertly chested down by Torres into the path of Mata who shot home, but the goal was disallowed for offside. A daisy-cutter from Frank soon followed. We were playing well, with intelligent passing making life difficult for a faltering Spurs team. Mata was heavily involved.

A horrible tackle by Vertongen on Ramires brought us all to our feet. He was easily becoming the villain of the piece. From the resulting Mata free-kick, played with perfect strength and position, the Spurs back line seemed to freeze, allowing John Terry to launch himself and guide the ball in past Lloris at the near post.

Pandemonium in the Chelsea section.

I pumped my left arm continually, then glanced down to see the Chelsea players following JT into the near corner.

My camera was ready; click, click, click, click, click, click. A lovely mess of fans’ fists and ecstatic Chelsea players’ faces.

Mourinho brought on Schurrle for a quiet Hazard. Torres again did ever so well to shimmy away from markers and lay the ball into the path of the German substitute, but Lloris again thwarted a near certain Chelsea goal. This was evolving into a cracking game of football.

With around ten minutes remaining, with Chelsea well on top, the on-going feud between Vertongen and Torres came to a head. A ball was pumped towards Torres and the two protagonists leaped for the ball. From my viewpoint, there seemed to be little contact, save for the flailing of arms, which is to be expected in any airborne challenge. If anything, Vertongen’s right arm seemed to catch Torres in the face. Both players went down, but the Spurs defender stayed down. Both sets of fans were baying. We knew that both players were on a yellow. When Alan suggested that Torres was in greater danger, I could hardly believe my ears.

What had he done? I had witnessed nothing untoward.

Mike Dean brandished a yellow towards the crowd of players. Some of the away fans presumed that it was for Vertongen. Fearing the worst, I knew that it was aimed at Torres. It soon became a red. We howled our displeasure. Fernando could not believe it. He took ages to slowly walk off the pitch. There was a genuine level of support for our number nine from the three thousand away fans. I think that this was his best game – OK, his best 36 minutes – in a Chelsea shirt by far.

However, it still irked that our hopes were dashed so cruelly.

“Well, we won’t score now Gal.”

Thankfully, two long range efforts from Sigurdsson and substitute Defoe blazed wide and over Petr Cech’s goal. A loss would have been unbearable. A draw was, in the circumstances, well deserved.

Walking south along the High Road once more, there was an overwhelming feeling of pride in that second-half performance. Our team is still evolving, but here was a great standard for us to aim for in all subsequent games. I was soon heading home, listening to the demise of both Manchester teams on the radio, and I was quick to reflect that an away point at the league leaders (yeah, I know) was becoming greater and greater by the minute.

It had been a good day.

Tales From Twenty-Three Years

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 8 May 2013.

In the packed Goose beer garden before the game, Rob was able to hand over my ticket for the Europa League Final in Amsterdam. It was great to have it in my own mitts. The worse thing that we can all do is take this game for granted, especially since it follows on the coat tails of last May’s triumph in Munich. This will only amount to Chelsea Football Club’s fifth European Final in 108 years. I personally can’t wait. To be truthful, the evening game against Tottenham felt like a European match. One chap likened it to the famous Chelsea vs. Liverpool match in May 2003. I was certainly aware of what was at stake. However, it wasn’t all about Champions League football in 2013/2014. We had our unbeaten home run in the league against Tottenham to protect.

…December 1 1990…a cracking game of football involving a Spurs team which included Italia ’90 superstars Gary Lineker and Paul Gascoigne for Tottenham and Italia ’90 squad members Dave Beasant and Tony Dorigo for Chelsea. Chelsea triumphed 3-2, Lineker blasted a penalty over the bar and I watched from the old West Stand.

On the walk down to the stadium, there was a proper big game feel to the atmosphere. I was in my seat with a good ten minutes to spare. The stadium seemed to take forever to fill up. Over in the far corner were 3,000 Spurs fans. Not one single flag or banner, though.

…11 January 1992…I watched from The Shed as a poor Spurs team were easily beaten with former Tottenham striker Clive Allen and Dennis Wise giving us an easy 2-0 win.

We had heard that both John Terry and Frank Lampard were not playing. However, a quick scan of the line-up didn’t cause me too much anxiety. This was a strong starting eleven, no doubt. I would have preferred JT in the defence, but I have to say that he looked decidedly shaky against Swansea City on a few occasions. Frank had put in one of his best performances of the season at Old Trafford, but it was no surprise that he was rested. So much for his and our dreams of scoring 202 against our most hated London rivals.

…20 March 1993…with David Webb in temporary charge, Tony Cascarino gave us an equaliser in a 1-1 draw. I remember Peter Osgood being on the pitch at half-time; his first appearance at Stamford Bridge for years and years. I watched from the lower west side of The Shed.

Neil Barnett quickly introduced last year’s management team before the game and there was a mixed reaction. Some booed. Some clapped. Most stayed silent. I think I clapped three times…”that’s enough.”

…27 February 1994…I didn’t attend this one unfortunately. An incredible game, which ended up 4-3 in our favour with a last-minute Mark Stein penalty. The attendance was a shockingly bad 16,807.

Juan Mata blazed over on 6 minutes but we did not have long to wait for a more pleasing effort on goal. A Mata corner dropped into the six yard box where Gary Cahill jumped pogo-like to nod the ball on to the far post where Oscar headed easily in. I had managed to capture his header on film and caught the subsequent celebrations deep in Parkyland on film too.

Get in!

Alan and I exchanged our usual pleasantries and the world was smiling.

…11 February 1995…I watched from the new North Stand as Dennis Wise stooped low to head in an equaliser. Phew.

We enjoyed more of the ball than Tottenham with Mata again going close. The busy Holtby was brilliantly tackled by Eden Hazard just as the Spurs midfielder was about to pull the trigger. However, much against the run of play, some sloppy Chelsea defending allowed Emmanuel Adebayor too much time to painstakingly guide a shot up and over the stranded Petr Cech. To be honest, I could barely believe my eyes as the net rippled. Unfortunately, I captured this shot on film too.

…25 November 1995…This game took place in the midst of the great Ken Bates vs. Matthew Harding “stand-off.” Matthew was famously banned from the Directors’ Box and so watched from the front row of the stand which he had personally financed. This was a very poor game. I watched from the temporary green seats at The Shed End and both teams were lucky to get 0.

Adebayor was proving to be quite a handful for the defensive pairing of Cahill and Ivanovic. Holtby was a bundle of energy. He reminded me of Bjarne Goldbaek. Remember him?

…26 October 1996…One of the most emotional games ever. Matthew Harding, who died on the Wednesday, was remembered on a very sombre day at Stamford Bridge. Goals from Roberto di Matteo, Ruud Gullit and David Lee gave us a 3-1 win. We watched from the North Stand, which was soon to be re-named. The image of a pint of Guinness on the centre-spot before the game was as poignant as it ever gets.

Although Spurs were back in the game, their support rarely varied from their two choice songs; “Come On You Spurs” and “Oh When The Spurs Go Marching In.”

…11 April 1998…With Jurgen Klinsmann back with Spurs for an end-of-season loan, we watched as goals from Tore Andre Flo and Gianluca Vialli gave us an easy 2-0 win. I was now watching games from my own seat in the Matthew Harding Upper. These were great times to be a Chelsea supporter.

On 39 minutes, Fernando Torres – now playing without his Zorro mask – managed to evade the opposition in a tight area on the right wing. He showed great control to turn and then adeptly play a superb ball in to the path of Ramires. Our little Brazilian hit the ball early, catching Loris off guard. His toe-poke easily hit the target. It was time to yell once more.

“YEEEEEES!”

…19 December 1998…This was another 2-0 win with goals from Gus Poyet and Tore Andre Flo. This pre-Christmas treat was even more enjoyable because it meant that the win put us top of the league for the first time in eight years. Yes, eight years. I think this match was the game where Spurs only wanted 1,500 tickets. They refused the other 1,500.

We were back in the ascendency and Champions League football was looking good for next season. One aspect of our play in the first-half which I found pleasing was the runs from Cesar Azpilicueta. On several occasions, his run took the covering left-back Assou-Ekotto with him, enabling either Mata, Hazard, Torrres, Oscar or Ramires more space to cut inside. Well done Dave.

A Kyle Walker shot flashed wide of cech’s goal just before the break, but it had been a pleasing Chelsea performance. The summary of match stats on the TV screens at the break told the story of the half; Chelsea 12 attempts, Spurs 6 attempts.

…12 January 2000…George Weah arrived from Milan in the afternoon, came off the bench in the last twenty minutes and headed home a late winner at the Shed End. This was getting too easy.

John Dempsey – he of the wildest ever football comb-over – was on the pitch with Neil Barnett at the break. Our hero in Athens was visiting Chelsea with his granddaughter who was the Chelsea match mascot. We gave both a warm reception.

…28 October 2000…Two goals from Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink and one from Gianfranco Zola gave us an easy 3-0 win, but I remember nothing of this one. After all, it was only Tottenham.

With ten minutes played of the second-half, it was all Chelsea. This was evolving into quite a spectacle with, for once, both sets of supporters trading songs at full volume.

…13 March 2002…Following our 4-0 win at Three Point Lane on the Sunday, this Wednesday night match was memorable for the magnificent hat-trick from Hasselbaink. A right foot thunderstrike, a bullet header and a left-foot curler. I will never see a more astounding “perfect” hat-trick. A goal from Frank Lampard gave us the fourth goal. I watched, mesmerized, in the East Upper. One of the great Chelsea versus Tottenham games.

We came close on three occasions. Fernando Torres failed to get a good connection inside the box and the effort was blocked. Azpilicueta sent in a curling effort from out wide which narrowly sailed over the far post. Eden Hazard cut inside after a trademark dribble, but – leaning back – blazed over. We wondered if we would rue those chances.

…1 February 2003…Spurs went ahead but Gianfranco Zola scored another magnificent goal, sending his free-kick curling in at the very top right hand corner of the Spurs goal. It was as perfect a free-kick as anyone could possibly imagine. This draw broke the Spurs’ losing sequence of six consecutive losses at Chelsea.

On the hour, Ramires was played in with a ball from inside his own half. The Stamford Bridge crowd roared him on. What a feeling that must be…breaking forward, with 40,000 people cheering you on. I guess we will never know. Sadly, he slipped inside the box, much to the disappointment of us all. He seemed to hit his head as he fell. Our chances were coming…but sadly going too.

…13 September 2003…I missed this game too, but not to worry. Chelsea won 4-2 in only Roman’s third home game as the new Chelsea owner.

As John Terry warmed-up over on the other side of the pitch in front of the family section, I wondered if his main role these days was to wind-up various sets of away fans in the far corner. At least it elicited a third song from the Tottenham fans. These are tough days for JT and for us fans alike. It is tremendously sad to see such a well-loved servant of the club clearly losing an edge to his game. Does he still have a role to play for us? Oh yes.

…19 September 2004…This was Jose Mourinho’s first-ever taste of a Chelsea versus Spurs derby and it will be remembered for how he chose to describe their approach to the game. The bus was parked. It was a dire 0-0 draw. Enough said. We hate Tottenham.

The game was opening up now, with our midfielders seemingly getting more distant from their opposite numbers. There were tired legs everywhere. In the programme, it mentioned that this was the 39th consecutive week that our players had either a Chelsea or national team midweek game. The last “free” week was in August.

…11 March 2006…Peter Osgood had sadly passed away ten days earlier and the game with Tottenham was the first home game since we lost our much beloved hero. This was another emotional day at Stamford Bridge. I took my Ossie banner to show my love for my childhood hero. We scored first through Michael Essien, only for Spurs to draw level. In the very last few minutes, William Gallas latched on to a loose ball and struck a venomous bullet into the Spurs goal. Stamford Bridge exploded like never before or after. For anyone there, they will never forget it.

With the game flowing back and forth, something struck me. Although it was proving to be a thoroughly entertaining – if not exhausting – game, I commented to Alan that Jose Mourinho would not allow a team of his to be chasing more goals while already leading in such a crucial match. With thirty minutes to go, he would have realised that the win would have secured Champions League football. He would have saved more goals for the Aston Villa and Everton games. He would have, quite simply, “shut up shop.” He would have asked his players to keep possession, tire Spurs out, and maybe make some defensive adjustments. How often did we see Chelsea winning 1-0, 2-0 or 2-1 at home or away under Mourinho and the ball being played across the back four? It was a very common tactic. But no, not this time. I wondered if Benitez had told the players to keep attacking relentlessly (is attack the best form of defence?) or if the players, unfettered and free in this new attacking regime, were simply acting under their own impulses. The fans certainly wanted more goals. However, crucially, I think that once the players had started to tire, the message should have been to conserve energy. Benitez should have strengthened up the defence, too.

…7 April 2007…I remember little of this game apart from the wonder strike from Lord Percy himself, Ricardo Carvalho, which sealed a 1-0 win.

Villas-Boas made two substitutes, and Benitez eventually countered by bringing on Moses on 73 minutes. However, he looked tired after only a few minutes on the pitch. Even I was losing my patience with him.

”Go past your man!”

…12 January 2008…I don’t remember much of this game. I remember Juliano Belletti scoring a screamer. I don’t remember Shaun Wright-Phillips’ goal. Yes, that’s right; even Shaun Wright-Phillips scored. Oh boy.

On 77 minutes, I glanced at the clock on the TV screen above the Spurs fans.

”God, there’s ages to go yet.”

…31 August 2008…This was a poor game. Belletti again scored for us but Darren Bent equalised on half-time. We hate Tottenham.

On eighty minutes, a Tottenham move carved through our defence and substitute Sigurdsson slotted in at the far post. The Tottenham fans exploded to life. It was a horrible sight but I always find myself inexplicably drawn to look at away fans celebrating a key goal. Oh boy.

It was again level. Fasten your seatbelts.

…20 September 2009…With Scolari in charge, we romped to an easy 3-0 victory with goals from Didier Drogba, Michael Ballack and Ashley Cole.

On 84 minutes, Benitez brought on Yossi Benayoun. The reaction of the home support was predictable but I found it annoying. Where there should have been encouragement and support, there was derision, dissention and hatred. Benitez is off in a few games time, Benayoun too; why can’t we just support the fcuking team in these last crucial four games?

…30 April 2011…This was a lovely time to be a Chelsea fan. We had beaten West Ham one Saturday and we played Tottenham the next. In between, we had the Royal Wedding and an extra day’s holiday. Sandro scored with a long-range effort in the first 20 minutes, but Frank Lampard “just” edged the ball over the line at The Shed End in first-half stoppage time. Salomon Kalou – an unlikely hero – got the winner for us in the very last minute. Again, the old place was rocking. We hate Tottenham.

I didn’t enjoy the last ten minutes. In fact, I think I watched a large proportion of it with both my hands clasped behind the back of my head; surely my body language was showing signs of nervous frustration. I imagined a Sky TV camera picking me out and the commentator mocking me –

“The Chelsea fans look worried now.”

…24 March 2012…This was a 0-0 draw. What can I remember from it? Nothing. We hate Tottenham.

What amazing drama in the last minute. Gareth Bale was fouled some thirty yards out. The crowd took a collective breath of apprehension. What a season the Monkey Man has had; every time I checked on Spurs’ progress in games, Bale seemed to have scored a late winner. And here we were…in the last minute of the biggest game of the season so far, with the Spurs saviour setting himself up.

It was in the perfect position for him, slightly to the right. Chelsea made a wall and Petr Cech took a position to his right. From where I was sitting, hands behind my head, the goal seemed to be too easy to miss. Surely he would lift a curving ball over the wall into the goal…my right, Cech’s left. They would win 3-2 (just like the bastards did in 1982), our league campaign would be in tatters and I would have to observe 3,000 Spurs fans jumping around like fools.

Oh boy.

We held our breath.

He approached. He struck. It flew high.

Petr Cech saved.

The referee signalled the end of the game. There were mixed emotions on the way out of the stadium. I heard somebody say “it felt like a loss.” I was saddened that we hadn’t clinched our Champions League berth, but I remember saying that I would not have been too unhappy with a draw on the walk to the ground.

It was imperative that Spurs didn’t win.

They didn’t.

They never do at Chelsea.

The unbeaten run – just as important as reaching the top four this season in my mind – goes on…

Parky and I dropped in to the “Fox & Pheasant” for a second-successive post midweek game drink. One fan made a great point; with a win against Tottenham, the manager could have eased off against Aston Villa on Saturday, thus saving energies for the Final in Amsterdam on Wednesday. Now, his hands are tied. He has to play his strongest teams in, potentially, all three remaining games this season.

The old adage of “taking one game at a time” now becomes very relevant.

See you all at Villa Park.

Dedicated to the memory of Chelsea fan Blind Gerry, who was at this game but tragically passed away later that night.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUIh-XCSu9s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vw7PxD21ZKs

RIP.

Tales From The North Circular

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 20 October 2012.

On Friday evening, with the arid desert of the two week long international break thankfully behind us, I felt like an excitable five year old on Christmas Eve. We all remember that feeling. On any other night of the year, as a child, it was typical to eke out as much time in the evening as possible before it was time to head up to bed. I can well remember the glee when my parents relented after persistent pleading to have “ten more minutes” outside (to play football in the street usually, with light fading), before being herded inside and then taken upstairs to bed. Christmas Eve was different; get to bed early, try to get to sleep quickly, it will soon be Christmas Day, with presents and jollity and fun.

At 6.30am, the alarm sounded and, unlike weekdays, there was no need for me to utilize the snooze button.

This was Tottenham Away.

Bearing in mind the rivalry between the two clubs, the magnificent denouement to last season, which of course resulted in us elbowing Spurs out of the Champions League, and the added frisson of Andre Villas-Boas as Spurs’ new manager, I regarded this as the most important away game of the domestic season.

Love it.

At 8.15am, I had packed my match day essentials – ticket, wallet, camera, coffee – and I was on my way. Within a minute of driving through the misty village, I had disturbed some pigeons as they sat idling in the middle of the road. Feathers flew, but I didn’t have time to check if there had been fatalities. I think they had a lucky escape. I wondered how we would fare with our feathered friends from Tottenham later in the day. Would the cockerels be quite so lucky?

The early morning was shrouded in mist as I headed east. As I drove along the quiet country roads to the north of Frome, a huge lock of birds suddenly appeared to my right. They swooped down and across my field of vision and the sight was rather impressive, if not slightly spooky. I let my imagination run away with me for a few seconds and I chuckled as I wondered if the pigeons had been in touch with the starlings after the incident five minutes earlier. As I drove on, I looked back and saw around twenty black birds sitting, ominously, on an electric wire, like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

Gulp.

I took a swig of coffee and told myself to pull myself together.

Pigeons, starlings, cockerels, Hitchcock.

What did it all mean?

Thankfully, the next hour or so was devoid of similar incidents. In fact, the drive through Somerset, into Wiltshire and on into Berkshire was simply fantastic. Back in my childhood, my father used to take this route on his drive up to London for our twice-a-season pilgrimage to Stamford Bridge. For games at White Hart lane, I usually drive into London and then take the tube up to Seven Sisters. For a change, I had decided to drive all the way in and chance my arm with a parking spot near the stadium. The first hour was spent driving along the idyllic roads of Wessex, through towns such as Devizes and Marlborough. While thoughts of previous games at White Hart Lane flitted in and out of my mind, all was good with the world.

Slender church spires piercing the monotone grey sky, prim thatched cottages hugging the road, trees peeking out over valleys of low-lying fog, delicate Turneresque smudges of light as the sun attempted to burn its way through the grey clouds, red brick farmhouses, the surreal lunar landscape of the chalk down lands, the first tints of autumn on beech trees and the dull purr of my tires on the road below.

As my little capsule of contentment headed east, I was happy with my lot.

And Chelsea’s game at Tottenham was only a few hours away.

Seriously, what else are you going to do on a Saturday?

Typically, my mind wandered back to my youth; my first ever two visits to White Hart Lane during the early weeks of the 1986-1987 and 1987-1988 seasons.

In September 1986, I had a thoroughly enjoyable day out in N17. After a far from impressive start to the season, we travelled to White Hart Lane and triumphed 3-1. The weather was dreadful, I got drenched on that long walk back to Seven Sisters, but I was euphoric. Only five months earlier, my first ever visit to Old Trafford had resulted in a Chelsea win. Two debut wins at my most despised opponents’ home stadia was just perfect. Although unmemorable in the main, 1986 at least provided me with those two excellent away days.

Less than a year later, we had got off to a flier with two wins from games against Sheffield Wednesday at home and Portsmouth away. The Chelsea hordes travelled in our thousands for this one. The attendance for the 1986 was just 28,000, but the 1987 one drew 37,000. I travelled up by train with Glenn and it felt like we were part of an invading army. We bought tickets (Glenn bought his from a tout) for seats in the upper tier of the Park Lane End and watched as our ranks were swelled with each passing minute. As I thought about the current limit of 3,000 away fans at all Premier League games, I became misty-eyed for those distant times. On that day in August 1987, I’d say that we probably had 10,000 fans at White Hart Lane. Those were the days my friend; for a moment, I was transported back in time. As kick-off approached and the terraced areas in front of our seats became swelled to capacity, there were calls by the Chelsea fans for the police and stewards to open up extra sections in the lower tier of The Shelf terrace, which ran along the side of the pitch and housed the Tottenham hardcore.

Eventually, an extra pen was given to the away fans. The Chelsea fans charged into the section, much to the chagrin of the Spurs fans above. It was all about territory in those days. It was all about how many you took to away games. It was all about numbers. These days, it’s difficult to gauge the size of various clubs’ travelling support because the limit is always 3,000. Back in those days, it was the size of our away “take” that was in many ways as important as the result on the pitch. In 1987, we travelled to White Hart Lane not because we were in the hunt for silverware. We just travelled to make a statement and to support the team.

Sadly, a last minute goal by Nico Claesen gave Spurs a 1-0 win, but the over-riding memory of that day twenty-five years ago was the fearsome size of our travelling support.

At 9.30am, I flicked on a Morrissey CD as I joined the M4. The next hour, save for some familiar tunes making me chuckle, the driving was rather monotonous. The fog thickened. It wasn’t so much fun.

Heading into London, the fog was still thick and the Wembley Arch to the north was not visible. Ah Wembley – memories of that 5-1 annihilation in April.

I exited the M4 and began a clockwise circumnavigation of inner London via the fabled North Circular. I don’t often travel on this road; the last time, in fact, was with Beth on our return from Leverkusen via Stansted airport last November. Before the advent of the M25 in around 1986, the North Circular – and the South Circular – was the main road used to traverse the great city of London. It acts as a ring road. It was and it still is notoriously busy.

As I drove through Ealing Common, with the road at its narrowest, I easily thought back on the years from 1975 to 1980 when my father would park on an adjacent side road and we would travel in by tube to see games at Stamford Bridge. My father was terrified of the London traffic and Ealing was as far as he could manage. Ah, how excited I was on those walks to Ealing Common tube station. My father’s last ever Chelsea game was against Everton on New Year’s Day 1991 and I’m pretty sure he parked at Ealing Common on that occasion, too. My mind became full of memories of match after match. They were layered one on top of another, just like the piles of bright autumn leaves on the Ealing Common walkways.

After Park Royal, from where we travelled in by tube for my very first game in 1974, the road broadened to three lanes. I had an eye on the clock and an eye on my speedometer. The traffic slowed to a halt on a few occasions. The road cut through inter-war housing estates, industrial areas and small parks. Signs for Wembley, Neasden, Finchley, Barnet and Wood Green. North London proper. It didn’t seem like Chelsea territory and, of course, it wasn’t. Sure we have pockets of support in this vast section of England’s capital, but this area of suburban sprawl belongs to the two North London teams. A large advertisement hoarding for an Arsenal shop at Brent Cross shopping centre emphasised the point.

I continued on. As I neared my destination, the traffic crawled along and my frustration was rising. How I’d hate to have to do this every two weeks. The only place to be every other Saturday certainly isn’t driving around the North Circular.

At last, I turned off at Edmonton and, via yet more slow moving traffic and a rather circuitous route, I eventually parked on Wilbury Way. It had taken me three and a half hours to cover the 125 miles.

Phew.

It was 11.45am.

I walked along Bridport Road and then Pretoria Road, past small industrial units, past the Haringey Irish Centre, where Cathy sometimes stops for a drink at Tottenham. I was soon outside White Hart Lane. Land was evidently being cleared for the construction of their new stadium which is planned to be built directly to the east of the current site. A computerised image of the new stadium appeared on a few hoardings. It looked impressive, but eerily similar to Arsenal’s new pad. This is no surprise; most new football stadia look as if they have been taken from the same blueprint these days.

Lower bowl, two tiers of executive seats, undulating top tier.

There is nothing special architecturally about White Hart Lane from the outside. It’s all rather dull to be honest. What makes it special are the memories of past matches and past players.

I shuffled past a heavy police presence in the south-west corner and entered the stadium. It was 12.15pm. While I waited for the kick-off, I spoke with a few acquaintances. It’s amazing how slow it takes for grounds to fill up these days. With fifteen minutes to go, the place was only half full. The team was the same as for Arsenal, apart from Cahill in for Terry. We heard that Gareth Bale wasn’t playing. Alan and Gary joined me just before the teams entered the pitch. There had been a few Chelsea songs in the pre-match build-up, but nothing from Tottenham.

As the match began, we soon serenaded the home fans of memories of Munich.

“We know what we are…Champions of Europe…we know what we are.”

Two lads arrived with a twelve foot long banner, obviously nicked from Munich, which we tied to the barrier right in front of us.

This was the Champions of Europe section.

Happy days.

Down on the pitch, Chelsea were in the ascendency and were pushing the ball around intelligently. The sun briefly broke through the grey sky and White Hart Lane looked a picture. It is a very neat stadium.

The songs continued.

“We won 5-1 – Wembley.”

“We won 6-1 – at The Lane.”

“We are the champions – the Champions of Europe, we are the champions – the Champions of Europe.”

“That song. You’ll never sing that song. You’ll never sing that song. You’ll never sing that song.”

“Ashley Cole’s won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup.”

“You got battered, you got battered, you got battered – in Seville.”

“Love the Old Bill – in Seville. Love the Old Bill – in Seville.”

We were certainly in good voice and our team were responding well. Our midfield maestros Oscar and Mata were soon probing away and we looked calm and relaxed, often finding room on both flanks. A corner to the far post was headed back across the box by Gallas. Gary Cahill had peeled away from his marker on the near post and met the dropping ball on the penalty spot with the sweetest of volleys. As a planned corner it could not have worked better if Gallas was still a Chelsea player. The ball thundered into the net. It was a volley which reminded me of the strike by Ivanovic in the Norwich game.

I captured Gary’s joyful run back towards us in the southern Park Lane end on camera. He was being chased by his gleeful team mates and their happiness was matched by ours.

Get in.

Our excellent play continued, but we didn’t carve out many chances. Tottenham tested Cech a little, but the defence held firm. Mata should have made it 2-0 as the interval approached but he shot over after he followed up his own shot after it was parried by Brad Friedel.

With memories of that night in Naples, Ashley Cole was able to scurry back and head a dipping cross off the line. Two fantastic blocks in quick succession – I think by Cahill and Ivanovic – told me all I needed to know about this new Chelsea team. Both players flung themselves at the ball with no respect for personal injury. It was magnificent to watch. Fantastic stuff.

At the break, talk was all about us playing well, but we were all rueing the lack of a second goal.

Well, the opening period of the second-half was a nightmare. Our concerns about that missing second goal came to fruition. Within ten minutes, defensive lapses had presented Tottenham with not only an equaliser through Gallas but a second goal via Defoe. The home crowd roared both strikes and the sight of all the gurning Spurs fans goading the Chelsea fans to my left and right was sickening.

White Hart Lane came to life. The uber-slow dirge “Oh when the Spurs…go marching in” echoed around the white tub of the old stadium. I hate it because it reminds me of that 2008 Carling Cup Final, but the Spurs fans certainly love it. It’s the one time they all get behind the team. The noise was deafening and we were momentarily quiet and subdued.

We were staring our first league defeat in the face. We hadn’t won at Tottenham in the league since 2005. Our unbeaten run of thirty-two league games against Spurs from 1990 to 2005 suddenly seemed like a distant memory. It was time for us to buck that trend. It was time for the players to respond. It was Roberto di Matteo’s first real challenge of the 2012-2013 league season. There was a niggling doubt that our three marauding midfielders would not be able to offer the two holding midfielders enough cover and assistance. Not just for this game, but throughout the whole campaign. I sat and wondered if our new playing style might be one-dimensional and too fragile. I looked at the Spurs midfielders – Sandro, Sigurrdsson, Huddlestone – and I looked at the slender Mata, Hazard and Oscar.

This was a big test alright.

To be truthful, Hazard had been the least impressive in the first-half. Suddenly, the overwhelming good vibes at the break had turned into feelings of worry and concern. There were cat calls amongst the away support. Fernando Torres, though neat in possession, seemed to be unwilling to run and test the Spurs defence. Too often, he stayed still, rather than exploit space.

Tottenham fired a few long range shots at Cech, but thankfully they tended to be straight towards him.

We need not have worried.

With Mikel and Ramires starting to re-exert themselves in the middle, the rhythm of the first-half soon returned. We enjoyed watching some wonderful flowing football. A loose clearance by Gallas – it was turning out to be his afternoon after all – fell at the feet of Juan Mata on the edge of the box. With ice cold blood in his veins, he took a steadying touch and calmly drilled the ball into the goal, with just inches to spare by the post.

YEEEEESSSSSS!

We were bouncing again. The Chelsea corner exploded with joy.

This was turning into some game. Remarkably, Defoe forced a supremely athletic save from Cech with a dipping shot. Then, a magnificent move resulted in more joy for the three thousand royal blue loyalists. Mikel played the ball to Hazard, who was now a lot more involved. His delightful first-time ball cut straight through the Spurs defence and into the path of the advancing Mata. It was the pass of the season.

Mata clipped the ball past Friedel and we were 3-2 up.

YYEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!

Oh boy.

What a game.

I found myself yelling awful abuse at the Spurs fans in the distance and I somehow felt cleansed for the experience.

Spurs had a couple of half-chances. Juan Mata could have scored another. He then played in Torres, but his studied strike towards the far post narrowly missed the target.

To our surprise, Daniel Sturridge took the place of the magnificent Oscar when we all expected Torres to be substituted. I commented that Jose Mourinho would have brought on at least one defender with us being 3-2 up. The days of narrow pragmatic wins were now a distant memory.

Attack or be damned.

With Spurs pushing for an equaliser – amid horrible memories of Robbie Keane’s late equaliser in the ridiculous 4-4 draw in 2008 – Walker was robbed by Mata on the far touchline in front of The Shelf. He painstakingly passed the ball across the six yard box for Studge to almost apologetically prod home from four yards. Behind him, Torres.

It was one of those days for Nando.

We roared again, though our screams of delight were mixed with howls of laughter too. We turned to the intense figure on the Tottenham bench for one last bout of piss-taking.

“Andre – what’s the score? Andre, Andre – what’s the score?”

Mr. Villas-Boas was not available for comment.

This was a stunning game of football. Not only did we play some wonderfully entertaining stuff, but the nature of our recovery was emblematic of the new found confidence running through this team. Although Mata deservedly garnered all of the attention, and Cech kept us in the game, I need to mention Mikel and Ramires, our two quite dissimilar bastions at the base of our midfield five. They were quite simply magnificent. Who could have possibly thought that our movement away from a physical style of football to a more entertaining variant would be so easy?

Transition season? What transition season.

On the walk back to the car, all was quiet among the Tottenham fans. There seemed to be an air of sad acceptance that Chelsea had prospered. I hate to say this, but I’m genuinely starting to feel sorry for them.

Wink.

Tales From A Perfect Sunday

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 15 April 2012.

The stakes were high. Chelsea versus Tottenham in the semi-final at Wembley. In our lives as Chelsea supporters, they really do not get much bigger than this. There were sub-plots aplenty for this game, but the simple truth was that revenge and retaliation was in the air. With our dominance over Spurs in the league since 1990, it is hard to believe that there is any revenge left to seek, but scratch the surface and there is plenty.

Let’s talk about the F.A. Cup Final of 1967; the first (and incorrectly dubbed) “Cockney Final” and a 2-1 loss. Of course, none of my friends were present at that one, but the memory is there in our collective psyche. There is 1982; the Quarter Final this time. Chelsea were a struggling second tier team and Spurs were the F.A. Cup holders, full of top players and swagger. A Micky Fillery goal gave us hope before the break, but the visitors agonisingly came back to beat us. I remember listening at home to the action on the old BBC Radio Two, staring at the swirls on the living room carpet, living every horrible minute of Spurs’ gut-wrenching come-back. It was as horrible a defeat as I can remember. And then there was 2008 and the Carling Cup Final defeat. This match was horrendous; a Drogba free-kick against the run of play, but then the eventual Spurs comeback and a 2-1 loss. Spurs out-sung us completely on the day; and it is that memory that haunts me. I actually hated vast swathes of our support on that Sunday afternoon. It left me wondering about my connection with the club, the fans, the whole nine yards.

How can I support the same team as so many Chelsea supporters who simply don’t live by the same rules?

I was up early – just after 7am. The sun was out, there was a slight frost. There was an incredible air of anticipation.

This seemed like the F.A. Cup final itself.

I collected Young Jake and then Lord Parkins by 10.30am. Stiff Little Fingers were the band of choice on the drive to London. The volume was cranked up and the raucous rasp of Jake Burns was knocking the cobwebs out of our bodies. I saw SLF in Bristol a few weeks back; still churning out the post-punk tunes of yesteryear, still tugging at my heartstrings, still taking me back to my youth. Songs about teenage angst, songs of rebellion, songs to make your blood bump. There was every danger that my vocal chords would be ruined even before I reached London, let alone Wembley. The words to “Roots, Radicals, Rockers And Reggae” were yelled at the passing traffic on the M4 –

“I said don’t fight against no colour, class nor creed.
For on discrimination does violence breed.”

“Equal rights and justice for one and all.
Cos only through liberty freedom shall form.”

I wondered if the Stiff Little Fingers’ mantra could be suspended for a few hours as we renewed hostilities with Tottenham.

We safely parked near The Lillee Langtry at West Brompton and caught the tube to Edgware Road. We reached The Duke Of York at about 1.30pm and a few of the lads were already there. We stayed three hours. We have been frequenting this corner pub since that Carling Cup game in 2008 (the defeat obviously didn’t deter us) and we usually sit outside, soaking up the sun’s rays. On this occasion, we were all inside; there was a bitter chill to the air. I limited myself to two pints of Kronenburg and found it hard going. I have driven to all but one of the games this season and I had reached frustration point; I longed to be able to free the shackles and dive in to more lagers, but knew I had to limit my intake. The F.A. had set the 6pm kick-off time and I had a long night ahead. As the others gulped their lagers, I sipped mine.

The chat swirled around me and more mates arrived. We talked briefly, and fitfully, about the game. There wasn’t a mood of optimism in the camp. Ed was realistic; the game could swing either way. Rick Glanvil, the respected club historian, briefly appeared and mentioned that a couple of Spurs mates were equally sombre about the game. This was reassuring; it reminded us that they hadn’t been performing as well as earlier in their season. Daryl mentioned that Tottenham had lost their last five F.A. Cup semi-finals and this brought a further moment of cheer. However, we spoke about the Barcelona game too; there was not a glimmer of hope for that one. We all knew it. We’re not stupid.

We set off at 4.30pm and caught the 4.55pm train at Marylebone. The train was packed with Chelsea, arriving from the south, and the carriage was soon rocking with noise.

I had a few moments to myself outside the stadium. The skies were clear and the sun lit up the shining steel of the stadium. I walked around to the front, underneath the Sir Bobby Moore statue. I took the inevitable batch of photographs of the glinting steel arch which dominates the surroundings. The Chelsea and Tottenham fans were boisterously walking up towards the stadium from the Wembley Park tube station to the north. This was our tenth visit to the new Wembley and we were allocated the east end for only the third time; again memories of 2008.

I ascended the elevators and was met with a packed concourse doing “The Bouncy” amid a sea of beer. We had seats behind the goal, just two rows from the rear. The stadium took an age to fill up, but what a sight it was. The tiers rose up to the sky and the pitch seemed ridiculously small. The new Wembley lacks something though; I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it just lacks charm.

To my right; Parky, Milo, Simon, Rob, Daryl, Ed, Alan and Gal.

The tickets only cost £30 – no complaints there.

To my left were Steve and Darren Mantle. Mick the Autograph King was in the row in front.

As the kick-off time approached, I surveyed the scene. To my annoyance and embarrassment, it was clear that we hadn’t sold all of our tickets. A large block of around 300 were completely empty down to my left. There were odd areas dotted around the Chelsea section unused. This sickened me.

Again, I conjured up thoughts about our size as a club. Steve and I chatted about Chelsea and Spurs. When I was growing up, Arsenal and Spurs were the two biggest clubs in London. Despite our in-roads of late, I would still contend that Arsenal have the biggest fan base of all the London teams. Whereas I think that Chelsea have a bigger global name than Spurs (we have ridden the internet at a key time), I still think that Chelsea lag behind Spurs in the south-east. The evidence in front of me could not be ignored.

I received an email recently from the club asking about my opinions about a few topics, but the questions were quite clearly hinting at our thoughts about a move to a new stadium. What a surprise. Well, I fully expect that the club will announce shortly that – “following a random sample of season-ticket holders and members” – the majority of Chelsea fans back a move to a new 60,000 stadium. Excuse my cynicism, but that would be a nimble piece of marketing by Chelsea, pushing through more propaganda in their desire to “up sticks” from our beloved stadium. Well, I will say one thing; it is a shame that more of the same fans couldn’t be bothered to fill 31,500 seats at Wembley.

Not many Spurs flags. More Chelsea ones.

Dare I mention the silence for the Hillsborough victims?

Notwithstanding Liverpool’s wish to avoid playing on the 23rd. anniversary of Hillsborough which then forced the F.A. to schedule us at a ludicrous time on the Sunday before a CL semi-final against the best team on the planet…notwithstanding all that…there was simply no reason for a few fools to besmirch the memory of the 96 fans who lost their lives all those years ago.

I glowered at two imbeciles in the row behind me, faces contorted with drunken rage, shouting obscenities.

Now is not the time to write about the events of that horrific day in Sheffield in 1989 – and Liverpool fans were not without blame – but it truly saddened me that a minority of Chelsea fans behaved in such a way in 2012.

Jose Bosingwa in. Didier Drogba in. Mikel in.

Let’s go.

The first-half was played out in front of a fading sun, with Chelsea only occasionally breaking into strong positions. A few players were soon the target of a few mates’ ire. Gary is not backward in coming forward in moments like these and his caustic comments brought a mixture of anger and mirth to the occasion –

“Fcuking ‘ell Kalou – your boots are worth more than you are.”

Of the two sets of fans, Spurs seemed more audible, though not up to their 2008 levels. The dirge-like “Oh When The Spurs” echoed around the west end, but we couldn’t respond. Our little group of mates, ably supported by a few others in the vicinity, tried our damnedest to get things moving, but we were met with opposition.

There were only a few chances in the first quarter for both teams. We were sounding each other out. I feared Modric, but also the pace of Bale and Lennon. Drogba was booked for a senseless challenge and I wondered if we would rue this later. Kalou broke on the left before playing in Juan Mata, but his weak effort was easily saved by Carlo Cudicini, the much-loved former Blue.

A Van der Vaart header was cleared off the line by John Terry down below us. In a nervy few minutes, Spurs ought to have gone ahead when a Van der Vaart ball towards the lurking Adebayor bounced up and rebounded off the far upright. Cech was beaten. Had Adebayor reached the ball, we would have been behind.

The Chelsea end eventually warmed up and our little gang of rebel-rousers initiated a “Carefree” which rolled around the upper tier; good work, boys.

With half-time approaching, the ball was played up to the previously subdued Didier Drogba in a central position. In a piece of classic Drogba action, he spun the ball past William Gallas and pushed the ball to his left. He unleashed a devastating shot past Carlo and the net rippled, sending us into a state of euphoria. Only Drogba could do that. How he loves Wembley. How we celebrated.

Miraculously, we were winning. Good old Chelsea.

More “Bouncy Bouncy” in the concourse at the break, but I wondered why the same fans felt so inhibited inside the stadium.

The second-half began with a flurry of Chelsea chances. Juan Mata soon forced a superb save from Carlo Cudicini and the ‘keeper parried a Luiz header from the corner which followed. There then followed a moment of infamy which will be talked about for ages. The ball bounced back towards Juan Mata who prodded the ball towards goal. The ball seemed to hit a cluster of players on the line and before any of us reacted, Mata celebrated and the referee was running back towards the centre-circle. I quickly glanced towards the linesman, but his flag was not raised.

Goal.

More manic pandemonium in the upper east end. Oh you beauty. We could hardly believe this. I noted that more than a handful of Chelsea fans, enjoying half-time refreshments, had missed this goal; fools.

Within what seemed like a few moments, Spurs had pulled a goal back. A ball from Scott Parker, the scowling former Chelsea midfielder, played in Adebayor. A clumsy challenge from Petr Cech but the ball rolled out to Bale who neatly turned the ball in to the empty net. The west end roared; that was more like it Chelsea, things were going too bloody well.

Unfortunately, David Luiz, who had been reasonable, had been injured during his attempt to block and was sadly stretchered off. Gary Cahill replaced him. Chelsea then enjoyed lots of the ball, moving the ball very well and keeping possession.

“That’s it boys, tire the fcukers out.”

The midfield were great – pass, pass, pass. We stretched them out if we could, Ramires especially doing well. Cahill did ever so well to track back and put in a sublime tackle on the raiding Bale. This was clearly a great game now. I watched on with a nervous resilience.

Juan Mata spotted Ramires’ fine run and, as Carlo advanced, the little Brazilian dinked a gorgeous chip over the advancing Number 23. The ball dropped in to the goal and bodies all around me were flying everywhere.

Get in!

Soon after, Gallas (yes, him) fouled his nemesis Drogba and Frank Lampard placed the ball. From my viewpoint, the distance seemed too far for a shot on goal, but I had my camera at the ready in any case. Surely he wouldn’t go for goal?

Frank took a swipe.

Snap.

The ball flew past Carlo and we were 4-1 up.

Yes, 4-1.

More mayhem.

Thousands of Spurs fans left en masse and I couldn’t resist taking many photographs of this perfect picture postcard scene; the scoreboard plainly stated Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4, the setting sun was disappearing behind the upper reaches of the west end and with it, Spurs season. The west end turned red.

We were roaring now…”Your support is – well, you know…”

Florent Malouda and then Fernando Torres came on as late substitutions and more chances appeared as we caught Spurs flat-footed at the back again. In the fourth minute of extra-time, with the Spurs support down to around 2,000, further joy. That man Mata, below his best these past few weeks, clipped the ball through for the onrushing Malouda who calmly stroked the ball below the hapless Cudicini.

Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 5.

It was almost cruel now…

“One di Matteo, there’s only one di Matteo, one di Matteo.”

“Who the fuck are Barcelona? Who the fuck are Barcelona?”

We – of course – couldn’t believe it. This was as an unexpected win as I have ever known in over 38 years of attending matches. Before the match if someone had said that the result was going to be 5-1, there is a very strong chance that I may have expected a Spurs win. I was not present at the 6-1 win at 3PL in 1997, so this represented the biggest ever Chelsea win against Tottenham. Oh boy.

We said our goodbyes – “see you Wednesday” – and we joined in the songs on the triumphant walk down the many flights of stairs.

“We won 5-1, we won 5-1, we won 5-1, Wembley – we won 5-1, we won 5-1, we won 5-1, Wembley.”

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50803528352658

There was a definite case of “we don’t believe it” as we exited the stadium, shaking hands and hugging friends, almost delirious with glee. The joy continued as we slowly trudged along Wembley Way. I kept looking behind to see the illuminated arch lighting up the darkening sky. This was a lovely sight, witnessed by myself for the first time – I have not been a fan of new Wembley – but this iconic sight struck a chord.

The clear night sky, beaming Chelsea faces, the cold April evening, the arch towering over all.

Superb.

Parky, Jake and I headed back into town. I was absolutely starving as I hadn’t had anything to eat all day long…we ended up, predictably, at Earls Court where Salvo entertained us with the perfect denouement to the day’s action; an Americano pizza with extra anchovies and a single ice cold Peroni.

I eventually reached home at 12.45am – it had been a magnificent day in London. Easily one of my top ten favourite matches of all time. For Tottenham, it was their sixth consecutive semi-final defeat. I joked with Parky on the way home that even though we sing “we hate Tottenham”, I am sure that they hate us more.

Let’s keep it like that.

We now play Liverpool at our second home on Saturday 5th. May – our fourth F.A Cup Final in six seasons.

Tottenham, meanwhile, look wistfully on.

Us.

1994 – Luton Town – won
1996 – Manchester United – lost
1997 – Wimbledon – won
2000 – Newcastle United – won
2002 – Fulham – won
2006 – Liverpool – lost
2007 – Blackburn Rovers – won
2009 – Arsenal – won
2010 – Aston Villa – won
2012 – Tottenham Hotspur – won

Them.

1993 – Arsenal – lost
1995 – Everton – lost
1999 – Newcastle United – lost
2001 – Arsenal – lost
2010 – Portsmouth – lost
2012 – Chelsea – lost

Tales From Game 2 And Game 881

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 24 March 2012.

This game came two-thirds of the way through our very own March Madness. Nine matches, of which I would be present at all but one, two managers, Champions League games, Premiership games, Youth Cup games, F.A. Cup games and a game with Tottenham.

Busy, busy, busy.

Nobody needs to be reminded that our unbeaten home record against Tottenham goes back to February 1990. A 2-1 defeat in that game was our last reverse. This is an astounding record. Don’t forget that we also had a 32 game unbeaten run in the league against Spurs home and away from that game until 2006 too. I’d suggest that never in top flight football in Europe has one team been unbeaten in 32 games – in consecutive seasons to boot – against another team. Those were heady days, no doubt. But the rare defeats against Spurs are even more awful because of our ridiculous ascendency in the past 22 years. The League Cup Final in 2008 was one of my worst days as a Chelsea fan; thinking about it, probably worse than the 2002 F.A. Cup Final against Arsenal.

My second-ever Chelsea game, way back in the autumn of 1974, was against Tottenham. Surprisingly, since I remember lots and lots from my first game in the March of that year, I don’t remember too much from that 1-0 win against Spurs. I know that I sat in the East Stand for the first ever time (row B seat 67 my ticket tells me) and I remember that a Johnny Hollins penalty gave us a 1-0 win. The only other thing I remember is a conversation which took place at my Aunt Muriel and Uncle Harold’s house in Southall after the game. My father had parked his car there and we had taken a bus and a tube in from there. My father was quite terrified of the London traffic; thank fully a trait I have not inherited. I remember comments being made by Uncle Harold about the football hooliganism that had taken place on that sunny day in October 1974. I think the news of the trouble between Chelsea and Spurs hooligans had made the news and, although I can’t remember details, no doubt there were words along the lines of –

“They’re not real fans.”

“It spoils if for the real supporters.”

Such is my fascination with football in my childhood, it is quite likely that I can name most of that Spurs team from October 1974, but I sometimes struggle to name many of our opponents in 2012. That Spurs team? Off the top of my head…Pat Jennings, Phil Beal, Mike England, Jimmy Neighbour, Martin Chivers, Steve Perryman, Martin Peters, maybe Chris Jones, maybe Joe Kinnear.

Infamously, the return game at White Hart Lane in the second-from-last game of the 1974-1975 season virtually condemned Chelsea to the old second division. We lost 2-0 and the hooligans were centre-stage again.

We hate Tottenham.

Yesterday. Now. Forever.

Lord Parky was collected at just before 9am and it was clear that the day was shaping up to be the brightest and warmest of the year thus far. A day for polo shirts, no doubt. I had to pick up Steve, from Bournemouth, at Amesbury and so I had to double-back on myself to an extent. As Parky and I zoomed over Salisbury Plain, Parky put one of his own drum and bass mixes on the CD player. The music boomed out and it there was a super start to the morning. We drove past Stonehenge and Steve was collected at 9.45am. A little traffic held us up, but we were in The Goose just after 11.30am.

We only had time for two pints of Peroni. I hate having to endure a rushed pre-match to be honest. Eliot from the New York Blues was over for the one game and it was great to see him again. The trip back to the UK was a sad one for him as his grandfather passed away recently. Once he knew that he was returning for the Spurs game, he sounded me out for a ticket; I didn’t hold out much of a chance to be honest. Unbelievably, he had been able to get hold of three tickets for the game via general sale…yes, that is correct; general sale.

Arguably our second biggest game of the season and the tickets go on general sale.

Eliot and I had a good little chat and moan about all things Chelsea. We covered quite a few topics in a short amount of time. Top work! Parky was flitting around and I saw Jesus briefly; he is off to Portugal on Monday, for three days of sun and Champions League football. As I have no holiday left, I will be missing out on the trip to Benfica. I can say it now; I told Jesus I was jealous of him. That boy is certainly packing everything in to his time in Europe. He has thrown himself into supporting Chelsea while on these shores with a ferocity that brings a massive smile to my face and gives me a warm glow inside.

On the quick walk down to The Bridge, I spotted the first tourist wearing a Chelsea / Tottenham “half-and-half” scarf. I scowled as I brushed past him. It made me conjure up a quick little list of personal pet peeves with the Chelsea match day experience in 2012.

1. Friendship Scarves; come back when you have decided which team to support, idiots.
2. “Chelsea Till I Die”; this isn’t a Chelsea song, never was a Chelsea song, never will be a Chelsea song. Typically, it gets sung by Football League teams and that’s where it should stay.
3. Replica shirts being worn over long-sleeved shirts; did your mother dress you?
4. Noise; the atmosphere gets worse each season. I’m sick to death of being one of only three or four in a section of two-hundred who sings throughout the game.
5. “You never won fcuk all”; the double-negative messes up the intended message. I blame the parents.
6. The West Upper; even if we provided song sheets, I suspect you lot couldn’t be bothered to sing.
7. Chelsea Pensioners; the club has shunted their seats further away from the middle of the East Stand with each passing year. Give them a prime seat bang on the half-way line.
8. The nerd like fascination by some fans with Chelsea club doctor Eva Carneiro; have these people never seen a woman before?
9. What a load of clap; if we get a throw-in or a corner, don’t just sit there with your arms folded, acting cool; clap. It’s really easy to do.
10. Boo boys; don’t do it. It’s not big, it’s not clever. Support the players or fcuk off.
11. The “Chelsea – hooligans” chant; grow up.
12. Roman – after nine years, I’d really like to hear you speak. Hear your thoughts. Explain what Chelsea means to you.

I made it inside with a few minutes to spare…up the six flights of stairs and up to the upper tier bar area…then inside.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50753620512658

Spurs, of course, had three thousand in the south-east corner. Only two flags, though. At the start of the game, quite a large central section of away seats were empty. I guess these were the Tottenham corporates. God, what a bunch they must be.

The game was a strange one really. The first-half was played out in great periods of hushed quiet. I had to pinch myself that this was a Chelsea vs. Tottenham game. In a way, we were surprised to see David Luiz on the bench, but there can be no doubts that Gary Cahill gave a polished and resolute performance alongside John Terry at the heart of the defence. Didier started and I have a feeling Fernando will start in Lisbon; hopefully able to exploit the space on the inevitable counter-attacks.

The sky was devoid of clouds. It was a gorgeous day in SW6. “Chelsea weather” said Alan.

After five minutes, a ball from Daniel Sturridge found a completely unmarked Didier Drogba – in tons of space – but he got tangled up with Frank Lampard and the chance was gone. The Chelsea midfield were struggling to impose themselves and Studge was having a very quiet game indeed. Tottenham were flooding the midfield but it took until the 30th minute for their first real shot on goal when Gareth Bale shot over. Soon after, Adebayor had an unhindered run down the left in front of me but tamely shot wide. Our chances were rare. There was a penalty appeal when Frank tumbled. We lost count of the times Bosingwa was exposed or out of position. However, Spurs were doubling up on him and our midfield players were not covering.

The first-half came to a close with a ridiculous flurry inside the Chelsea six yard box. We seemed to go to sleep and Modric drifted through and set up a chance for Rafael Van der Vaart, but Petr Cech made a miraculous block, followed up by two other attempts, but Spurs only won a corner.

Phew.

The first real chance of the second half was an old-style route one attack; a Cech punt, a Drogba pass to a raiding Studge, but his shot flashed wide of Brad Friedel’s upright.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

This shot seemed to warm up the home fans and The Bridge eventually stirred with a few minutes of the “Chelsea / Amazing Grace” chant. Spurs responded with a shot from Luke Walker which hit the side netting.

On 58 minutes, the most skilful moment of the entire game; the way Juan Mata killed a ball from a punt from Bosingwa, stopping it dead with his foot, was pure art. Unfortunately, the ball fell behind him and the chance was spurned. Frank Lampard, to be fair had lofted a superb chipped pass in the first-half, but the game was one of industry and toil rather than of skill and touch.

David Luiz replaced Jose Bosingwa and then provided us with a typical Luiz performance; strong tackles one minute, terrible positioning next. We had a penalty appeal refused and the place was at last noisy. A free-kick from Juan Mata hit the base of a post and the ball ricocheted back towards Luiz but his prod took the ball away from the waiting Drogba. There were rueful looks when nemesis Louis Saha came on in place of Van der Vaart. Soon after, a horrendous moment and I thought that our unbeaten run was coming to an end. A Modric pass found Adebayor and he raced past an advancing Cech. Thankfully, his heavy touch forced him a few yards wide and these extra split seconds cost Spurs dearly. A shot on goal was miraculously cleared off the line by Gary Cahill. We were dumbfounded. It was exceptional play. Gary’s subsequent roar at the Chelsea fans in the Shed Lower was Terry-esque in its intensity. From the resultant corner, Spurs again went close when a Bale header crashed against the bar. Torres was now on, toiling on the right in place of the poor Sturridge. With a minute to go, another great ball from the otherwise average Lampard found Didier, but his delicate chip was over. In the last minute, a finger-nail chewing moment; a Tottenham free-kick was drilled in, but Cech flew himself to his left to scramble the ball for a corner. We withstood that last threat and the whistle blew.

Phew.

It was the first 0-0 result between Chelsea and Spurs in the league at The Bridge since the infamous “parking the bus” game in September 2004.

The mood was quite sombre on the walk down Fulham Road. Points dropped; yes. Five points behind Spurs; yes. Only eight games left in the league to pass Spurs; yes. The Europa League beckons; yes.

Oh well. We’ve seen worse. To be quite blunt, I was just relieved that our unbeaten run against Tottenham was extended to 22 games. At least it means that my favourite Chelsea joke will still get the occasional airing –

“Dad, when did Chelsea last lose at home to Spurs in the league?”

“I don’t know son. Ask your granddad.”

After seven Chelsea games in twenty-one games for Lord Porky and me, we are taking a rest next week. No game on Tuesday, but we will meet up for the jaunt to Aston Villa next Saturday. Who knows, Spurs might be out of the F.A. Cup by then.

Tales From Seven-Sisters And Beyond

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2011.

For the second year in a row, the league computer had churned out another away game at Tottenham in December. Last season, a bleak Sunday afternoon and this season a grey Thursday evening. This was another solo mission for me. Parky had missed out on a ticket for this away game, but was still feeling the effects of his recent bout of gastro-enteritis in any case. I had finished work on Tuesday, but I dropped into the office in Chippenham on the drive up to London; I finished off a couple of spread sheets and collected a few Christmas gifts from some suppliers. Working in European road haulage has its perks; my plunder included a twelve pack of Peroni from an Italian supplier and a selection of chorizo from a Spanish one.

If I am perfectly honest, I was sick to the back teeth of all of the unwanted bad press involving John Terry leading up to the game. I was also dreading the vitriol that would be yelled at him by the Spurs supporters. I was hoping we would not buckle. Of all games for us to play just after his court appearance was announced, too. There is no other fixture in the Chelsea calendar which has had such a back catalogue of venomous chants – from both sides – as Tottenham. My work colleague Mike, a United follower, acknowledged the toughness of this fixture for JT and Chelsea alike. I agreed. As I left the office, Mike suggested that a 1-1 score line would be just fine.

Music from Keane’s second album and a festive gingerbread latte from Costa at Reading Services fortified me on my drive east. As the journey continued, the negative vibes were disappearing and I began thinking about the chances of getting a positive result at White Hart Lane.

I soon found myself hurtling over the elevated section of the M4 just as the sun began to set. There was a line of twelve illuminated Christmas trees at Fullers Brewery to welcome me to Chelsealand and I was soon parked up at my usual place at around 5pm. I walked to Earl’s Court, stopping in to see my good friend Salvo at his restaurant en route. He was nursing a glass of red wine and was looking forward to watching the Chelsea game on TV. I had a cappuccino on the house and promised him that I would return after the game.

I reluctantly paid the £7 for the return fare to Seven Sisters; I was overdressed with a thick pullover and coat and the tube journey was very uncomfortable. Out into the cool evening air and I was glad to be able to have a relaxing stroll up the High Road. The one and a half mile walk took me thirty minutes and I was able to focus on the night’s game. But also of other games over the years, too.

As I crossed a road, I spotted the site of a former pub that my mate Glenn and I nipped in before the game in August 1987. On that particular day, we lost 1-0 to a last minute Nico Clausen goal, but the thing I remember from that game was the size of the Chelsea support in the massive 37,079 crowd. In those days, that was a very large attendance. We had opened up with two wins and the Chelsea fans responded in typically enthusiastic fashion. Glenn and I had seat tickets above the Chelsea terrace in the original Park Lane stand. We watched with growing pride as more and more Chelsea fans appeared. If memory serves, there seemed to be a lot of concern that the masses of away fans were being tightly squeezed in the available pens, complete with fences. I remember that the outcry from the Chelsea fans forced the police to open up a couple of pens in the terrace in front of The Shelf. This was a massive statement of intent from Chelsea.

Take that Tottenham.

Our away section was rammed and the atmosphere was red hot. If anything, this was the quintessential Chelsea memory from that period; without any silver wear for 16 years, we still took massive volumes to away games. How I miss the days when we could simply turn up on the day and fill away sections with 5,000 to 10,000 fans. Great times. For the record, despite the good start to that season – on until Christmas in fact – a second-half slump saw us relegated.

Altogether now; Typical Chelsea.

As I neared the centre of Tottenham, I noted blue and white Christmas lights adorning the street lights. I wondered if this was an attempt by the local council to spruce up the area after the ignominy of the riots in the summer. To be honest, I expected more burned-out shops, but the around White Hart Lane is never the most salubrious. Three police vans, sirens wailing flew past me. At Bruce Grove, police vans were parked outside The Ship pub. I’ve only ever had drinks at Tottenham on a couple of occasions and it isn’t pleasant. There are no designated away pubs.

You pay your money and you take your choice.

An enterprising vendor was selling Arsenal toilet rolls opposite the entrance to the Park Lane stand. There was hustle and bustle. Four folk dressed as cockerels were collecting for a charity. One major Spurs boozer was busy. I noted that a previously derelict pub, on the corner, was now the Tottenham ticket office. More police vans blocked the entrance to Park Lane. No hint of trouble, but the threat always there.

I ascended the several flights of stairs to the upper tier. Soon inside the bar area, I met up with Simon from Atlanta and it was great to see him again; our paths last crossed in the madness of Baltimore and the heat of Texas. We waited for other people to arrive. The access to the upper tier area at Tottenham is through a double door. Waiting for familiar faces to arrive was strangely akin to the wait for friends at an airport arrival terminal. The doors would be pushed open and faces would suddenly appear. Lots of unfamiliar ones, but then a few friends emerged from the stairwell. We all agreed that the game ahead could be a proper “backs to the wall” performance. We had heard that Bale was starting and the mood deepened.

The commonly held view of giving Fernando Torres a start was not shared by the manager and a few “tut tuts” were uttered by various mates.

Into the seats and I quickly spotted Alan and Gary. We have been away season ticket holders together since the autumn of 2006 and we must’ve seen around 80 league away games in each other’s presence since then. It’s always a pleasure to see them. We went through the teams, murmured something about it being a tough old evening, and then got behind the team. Just before the teams appeared from beneath the West stand, the Chelsea Christmas Choir sang a carol in praise of our captain.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50537927377658

Alan said that Drogba pulled up in the pre-match stretches, but he was playing. Jose Bosningwa was given the unenviable task of marking Bale. The atmosphere was prickling with barbs from both sets of fans.

White Hart Lane, despite being home to one of my personal enemies, is a great stadium. However, I liked it more when the idiosyncratic East Stand towered over The Self below and the rest of the other stands. The rest of the stands have since caught up, with a constant roof level, and the East Stand now looks half the size as the original despite it being exactly the same size. The mind plays tricks, I guess.

Spurs came at us straight from the off and we were encamped in our own half without relief.

The home fans began their slow dirge-like “Oh When The Spurs…”

A lightning break from that man Bale down the left and I was quickly reminded of the threat he poses. He advanced a yard or two past the chasing Bosingwa and sent in an inch-perfect cross into that part of the penalty area that TV commentators have dubbed “the corridor of uncertainty.” Cech seemed worried to commit fully and Adebayor bundled the ball in from close range before ambling over to our section and rubbing our noses in it with a silly dance.

Never mind players getting booked for taking their shirts off when they score; they should be cautioned for purposefully running to wind up the away fans. So, our worst fears were realised and I sent out a text –

“It’s going to be a long night.”

Up until that point, we were second best to everything and the home fans were roaring.

Well, we were never as low again during the whole night and we ended up producing one of our most invigorating displays of the season. Soon after I sent out that doom-mongering text, Juan Mata unleashed a long shot which Brad Friedel could only parry into the path of Daniel Sturridge. Unfortunately, the ball came at him on his right side and he screamed it over from an angle. Alan commented that our chances would be rare and we needed to take them.

Our support, not exactly quiet, were now in full flow and taunted the surprisingly subdued home fans with a classic –

“You burned your own town, you burned your own town – you stupid bastards, you burned your own town.”

The home fans simply had no answer for that. I’ve noted, actually, that the Spurs’ support always seemed to be more rabid – to put it bluntly, there was more pure hate – when we were on our historic run of dominance against them.

What was it? 32 league games home and away without defeat.

These days, The Lane…like The Bridge…has grown quieter.

Spurs’ early dominance was subsiding and we were getting more of a toe-hold in the game. A stinger from Raul Meireles was held by Friedel. A sublime piece of control by Drogba – letting the ball hit his chest, a turn, a volley – struck the near post with the Spurs ‘keeper beaten. That was just classic Drogba. Spurs countered on a few occasions, but our defence held firm. Neither Modric nor van der Vaart seemed at ease.

The Chelsea fans were in great voice.

“You are my Chelsea. My only Chelsea. You make me happy, when skies are grey. You’ll never notice how much we love you until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA.
LA LA LA LA LA.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

This roared for minutes on end and Tottenham were silent. The spirit of 1987 lives on.

There’s another song which also draws silence from Tottenham –

“We won 6-1 at The Lane.”

However, we experienced injuries to first Ivanovic and then Mikel. We substituted these two players with Feirreira and Romeu. With memories of Paolo’s catastrophic game at centre-back against Sunderland last season fresh in everyone’s minds, we were placated by seeing him take up residence at full back.

But Bosingwa in the middle alongside JT? Not sure.

Talking of JT, it goes without saying that his every touch was loudly booed by the Spurs fans, but he just used that to stir him on. He hardly put a foot wrong as the first-half drew on.

I met up with Simon and also Burger at half time, out in the bar area, in the crowded walkway. I think this was Burger’s first visit to White Hart Lane. While I was lining up to use the facilities, I wondered to myself where the toilets actually ended and the rest of Tottenham began.

On the balcony walls at Tottenham, there are hardly any flags or banners draped. Instead, they have gone for a few choice Spurs phrases which appear every few yards. There is the asinine “Come On You Spurs.” But there is also “To Dare Is To Do” which is the translation of the club’s motto “Audere Est Facere.” Well, this should be changed to “To Dare Is To Win Fcuk All.”

In fact, if there was any team doing the daring on this crisp night in N17, it was Chelsea. We attacked and attacked throughout the second half and it seemed like we were the home team. With every prolonged bout of possession, or with every Ramires run or Sturridge dribble, the home fans grew quieter and quieter. We were revelling in the ascendency and the same old chant kept echoing around the packed stands.

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

A magnificent through ball from Drogba set Ramires on his way, but he took an extra touch and missed the target. He was full of energy, though, and encapsulated our fine display. A JT header from a corner was saved by Friedel.

Oh how I would have loved to see him score.

I kept saying to Alan that this was a mightily brave performance from us. Full of movement, running and endeavour. Tackle after tackle upset Tottenham’s flow. The performance against Wigan seemed light years away. What a strange game football can be. Still the chances came; a flicked header from JT from a free-kick flashed agonisingly over. However, a free header from a whipped-in corner by Sandro flew past the far post and we heaved a massive sigh of relief.

Sandro found room for another effort on goal and his shot spun up off a Chelsea defender’s leg. Cech changed position in mid-air and palmed it over; quite an exceptional save, reminiscent of a Carlo Cudicini save at White Hart Lane many years ago.

This was pulsating stuff. Still we pressed for the winner. Tottenham were given a new lease of life with those close efforts on goal and William Gallas flashed wide at the near post. He held his head in his hands and I wondered about the way his career path has changed since he left us in 2006. There was always a lot of noise from the Arsenal supporters immediately after the infamous Gallas / Cole swap in that year. A lot of Goons claimed Arsenal had the best deal.

Ashley Cole has since won three FA Cups, one league title and one league cup.

William Gallas has won sweet FA.

“To Dare Is To Do”, eh William?

The game progressed at a pace. Torres replaced the redoubtable Drogba. Heartbreaking stuff now as a Mata free kick found the leaping Ramires – unmarked in the box – but his header flew narrowly wide. Oh how we rued that miss.

In the last Spurs attack of the game, an Adebayor break down the left. He took the ball on into the box. We held our collective breaths.

Memories of a late Robbie Keane goal at that end in 2008.

Adebayor swept the ball goal wards. It flew along the floor and from my seat I was not able to see how it drifted wide. The resultant corner suggested a Chelsea touch, but by whom I did not know.

At the final whistle, a massive cheer from the three thousand Chelsea loyalists. The players, God bless ‘em, slowly marched towards us and several threw their sweaty shirts into the crowd. John Terry, his every movement shadowed by a TV cameraman, gave his shirt away and stood before us, pounding his chest with his palm.

An iconic site.

He had been quite magnificent all evening to be honest. I thought that it was his best performance since his equally spectacular showing on the same pitch just over a year ago.

Outside on the High Road, I drifted away and quickly walked down to the Seven Sisters tube station. A lone police surveillance helicopter was whirring overhead, but I didn’t see or hear of any trouble. My three mile cardiovascular workout completed, I reached Salvo’s at 11.15pm and treated myself to a single Peroni and a pizza. It looked like Salvo had finished off a bottle of red wine since my previous visit and he was full of smiles and laughter, chatting about all sorts, but mainly football.

It was a great end to a lovely night in London Town; a battling performance at one of our main rivals and a hearty sing song to boot. My fellow Chelsea fans did me proud.

I eventually reached home at 2.30am and soon discovered on the internet that it was none other than John Terry who had blocked Adebayor’s goal bound effort; I should have guessed really.

John Terry – Captain, Leader…you know the rest.

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.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Tottenham Hotspur

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