Tales From The Cock Tavern

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 5 January 2019.

Along with a league opener and a Boxing Day game, an FA Cup Third Round tie was historically one of the games of the season. But, I have to be honest that the home match against Nottingham Forest was simply not exciting me as it should. I, along with many foot soldiers, had originally hoped for an away game at a new stadium such as Accrington Stanley, Doncaster Rovers or Lincoln City. But no, we were given yet another home tie, and against a team that we only met as recently as last autumn in the 2017/18 League Cup competition.

So, the tricky trees were heading to Stamford Bridge once more, and as I picked the Three Chuckleteers up in the morning, the game was simply not getting me too excited.

The alarm had sounded at 6.15am – bloody earlier than a normal working day – because I wanted to be on the road nice and early. By 8am, I had collected two Glenns and one Paul. There was a slight frost, everything was a light shade of grey outside. By 10.15am I had dropped Parky and PD outside The Old Oak, where they hoped they would be able to grab an early pint. I parked up closer to the ground and walked down to Stamford Bridge with Glenn, where we hoped to spend some time with some of the US friends that have been featured in these match reports of late.

We walked past the usual smattering of ticket touts that have been part of the match day scene at Stamford Bridge for ever and ever.

They were certainly present as long ago as 1920, when the FA Cup Final itself was held at Stamford Bridge for the first of three times.

My grandfather, being careful not to walk into the onrushing crowds as he picked his way along the pavement from the Walham Green tube station to the main entrance of Stamford Bridge, was approached on several occasions by Cockney ticket touts, offering the chance to watch from the main stand. His ticket, and that of his friend Ted, had been given their general admission tickets by the Somerset Football Association in lieu of their role in the running of their local team Mells and Vobster United, for whom they had both played for a few seasons, along with my grandfather’s brother Christopher. My grandfather wondered how the touts had managed to get their hands on these tickets. It was a surprise to him. This was his first football match, and he was simply unaware that such tickets would be available.

“No thank you. We have tickets.”

“OK governor. You want to sell them to me?”

This confused and surely bemused my grandfather. He thought to himself, simplistically, “how would we get in without tickets?” and he paused for a while with a look on his face which probably was more serious than it really should have been.

“No. No thanks. No – they are ours.”

His long-time pal chipped in :

“We’ve come from Somerset for this match. Why would we give them to you?”

The tout uttered a couple of oaths and moved on.

In 2019, my responses to a few touts were not so wordy. I just shook my head and solemnly moved on.

We were at Stamford Bridge for 10.45am, a quite ridiculously early time. In the bar area of The Copthorne Hotel, we settled down with a couple of astronomically priced coffees – £4 apiece – and chatted to a couple of our former players. I like to do this two or three times a season; it makes a lovely change from the usual routine, and I usually bump into a few Chelsea friends while I am there. Ron Harris, who Glenn and I got to know when he lived in Warminster in the ‘nineties, but who moved away to live on the south coast for a while, now lives a mere ten miles from me. It was no surprise that Ron was there early. He always is the first to arrive.

“I’m only ever late for a tackle.”

It was the first time that I have seen him since his move.

Colin Pates, the captain of “my” Chelsea team of the mid-‘eighties chipped in :

“I heard the house prices have fallen since he moved.”

We sat there, chatting away, for a while. Bobby Tambling was another early presence, and then former players John Hollins, Tommy Baldwin, Paul Canoville, John Bumstead, Gary Chivers and Kerry Dixon arrived too. I won’t name names for obvious reasons, but a few of these former players were quite scathing of our recent play, and playing style. I found myself nodding in silent agreement.

I offered an opinion.

“If someone who had never seen a game of football ever before, and the game was not explained to them, and they watched us play, they would probably think that the aim of the game was getting the ball over to within ten yards of the white corner posts by using as many touches as possible.”

Alas, the first of my friends – Lynda from Brooklyn – arrived just after the players went on their way around the various corporate areas, but we still had a good natter about her stay. She has been lucky enough to see four Chelsea matches. Outside, at about 12.30pm, I bumped into the “London Is Blue” team again, and said I would join them later. PD and Parky had spent a while in “The Goose” rather than “The Old Oak” and had by now walked back up to “The Famous Three Kings”. Glenn had dived into “The Malt House” and had bumped into Dave and Karen from Frome. After wishing Lynda a safe journey back to the US after the game, I met up with Glenn, Karen and Dave in “The Cock Tavern.”

This was turning into a tale of five pubs.

I chatted to a few of the American visitors in the beer garden of “The Cock.”

It was the first time that they had met Glenn, so we recounted a little of our Chelsea story for their general amusement and bemusement.

“Yeah, met Glenn in 1977 when he joined his brother and me at Oakfield Road Middle School in Frome. We were one of only three or four Chelsea fans in our entire school, we were a rare bread. We always stopped and spoke about Chelsea when we saw each other at school over the years. Bumped into him on The Shed at the opening game of the season 1983. Went to our first game together at home to the Geordies in the November of that year.”

It then dawned on me.

“Talking of 1983/84, this pub is where I had my very first alcoholic drink at Chelsea, before we thumped Leeds 5-0 to win promotion.”

Ah, 1983/84. Here I go again.

I was eighteen. In previous visits to Stamford Bridge, the thought of going in to a pub was simply not relevant. Not only did I look young for my age, risking the humiliation of not being served, I was also usually broke. Very often I would not eat a single thing on these Chelsea trips to save money for the next one. I remember so much from that day. I certainly remember that this was the first occasion that I had travelled to a game with with PD, along with Glenn and two chaps from Westbury, Mark and Gary. My memory recalls a lager and lime. The pub filled up and I remember talking to a lad from Reading about some Chelsea characters, one of which I would later realise was Hicky. He also spoke about some Chelsea fans going over to the Iranian Embassy Siege in 1980 after a game, intent on “aiding” the release of the people inside, though how that might have manifested itself heaven only knows. The songs started up and “One Man Went To Mow” – which was the song of that season – was heartily roared. We all sat until “nine”, then exploded onto our feet on “ten.” We stood on the sofas, we sang our hearts out. The pub was a riot of noise. I felt as if I was coming of age, a Chelsea rite of passage. Skinhead fashions had been taken over by a new movement on the terraces, more so in that season than in any other at Chelsea. The weekend before, I had travelled to Bath to buy my first ever bona fide casual garment, a blue and white Pringle, which cost me £25 or one week’s dole. I wore that with my Chelsea shirt underneath. I felt the business. I belonged.

The team news came through. To my surprise, Cesc Fabregas was playing, and was captain too. After his apparent “wave goodbye” to the fans after Wednesday’s dull game, I had blithely assumed that his Chelsea career was over.

  1. Caballero.
  2. Zappacosta.
  3. Emerson.
  4. Fabregas.
  5. Christensen.
  6. Luiz.
  7. Hudson-Odoi.
  8. Barkley.
  9. Morata.
  10. Ampadu.
  11. Loftus-Cheek.

“Happy with that.”

Once inside the stadium, Alan and myself agreed that this was a potentially very attack-minded team. It would be good to see Ethan Ampadu in a more advanced position than in his previous starts. Alongside us was a young lad, visiting from New York, who worked for NBC sports. PD arrived a little late after his sesh with Parky and was soon cursing away, and Alan told the lad that maybe he could arrange for PD to get a job commentating on games for NBC.

“A colour commentator, I think you call it. This would just be the colour blue, though, fackinell.”

Forest had around four thousand. Their simple red/white/red is a surprisingly rare combination at Stamford Bridge these days. Their white collars looked like those starched ones from the Edwardian era. I am a big fan of the Nottingham Forest badge, which appeared years ahead of its time in 1977, but still has a lower-case “E” which infuriates me a lot more than it should.

The away fans were soon snorting derision at our lack of noise.

“Is this a library?”

“It’s just a ground full of tourists.”

They had a point. I thought that the atmosphere was bad on Wednesday, but this was even worse. It was, without a doubt, the quietest atmosphere at Stamford Bridge that I had ever witnessed.

We began – again – well but I hoped that we could carry it on for a longer amount of time than in other recent games.

Early half-chances came to us. A Fabregas shot, a Morata header, an Emerson free-kick. At least we were creating more than on Wednesday and moving the ball a little quicker. There was not, quite thankfully, a huge amount of frustration or cynicism in the home support. Morata appeared to go down way too easily to us, admittedly some one hundred yards away, and no infringement was judged to have been manifested on his frail body.

“Stay on yer feet, FFS.”

Forest goaded him with being a “poor Daryl Murphy” whoever Daryl Murphy is.

I turned to Alan.

“He’s a poor Brian Murphy, let alone Daryl Murphy.”

On the half-hour, a clumsy challenge of our Ruben resulted in an easy penalty decision. Unsurprisingly, Cesc stood up to take it. But his approach was too clever by far, and his poor low shot was ably pushed away by the Forest ‘keeper Luke Steele.

Bollocks.

Morata supplied Davide Zappacosta who cut in and smashed a shot goal wards, but Steele was equal to it. We enjoyed so much of the ball. I was pleased with the contributions from Ampadu, his body language is spot on. Fabregas was responsible for a few lovely forward passes. We were well on top.

After running for a ball down below us, our Ruben evidently injured himself and was substituted by Eden Hazard just before the break.

Forest were goading us with “WWYWYWS” but there was hardly a response from the Chelsea sections, apart from a few “YNFAs.”

They then rhymed “Aitor Karanka” with “Lampard’s a wanker” as the biggest rivalry in the East Midlands was transplanted to SW6.

Chelsea responded with songs about our Frank, which only remotely seemed relevant. Where were the songs about the current players? Still in the development process, I presume.

Forest sang a version of “Mull of Kintyre” ;”oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

How 1977.

Ah 1977.

I find it hard to believe that of the three promoted teams in 1977, it was not the teams finishing in first and second place – Wolves and Chelsea – but the third-placed team Nottingham Forest who would surprise the football world with the League Championship in 1978 and then then the European Cup in 1979 and 1980. And all of this under the unique management skills of Brian Clough.

Clough – famously – rarely used to show up on the training pitch and would let his players play the game to their own devices. Of course he set the team up in a certain formation, but his view was this :

“You are all good players. I trust you. You are not stupid. You know how to defend. How to attack. Get on with it.”

He is at the other end of the football spectrum compared to the fastidious and studious style of many in modern football. I even suspect that there are dossiers produced by modern managers on how to tie bootlaces correctly. Clough was certainly of the “laissez-faire” school of man management. But bloody hell it worked. How he won the title in 1978 with journeyman players such as Kenny Burns, Ian Bowyer, Frank Clark, Larry Lloyd, Peter Withe and Martin O’Neil is certainly a mystery to me if not others.

Soon into the second-half, with thoughts of a midweek flit to the banks of the River Trent for the first time – for me anyway – since 1999, the game changed. The ball was played out to our Callum, who showed a classic piece of wing-play, a shimmy, before running past his marker. His low pass was magical, right into the path of Alvaro Morata who prodded the ball in from close range.

It was a money-shot from inside the six-yard box alright.

Get in.

Alan : “thay’ll have ta come at us naaa.”

Chris : “Come on me little diamonds, me ducks.”

It was then Callum’s chance himself to add to the score line, advancing with pace but forcing Steele to scramble away but with nobody on hand to force home the ball. Morata then suffered the miss of the century, touching the ball over from a mere four feet, but – thankfully for him – he was offside anyway.

“Obvs” as the kids say.

Not to worry, further stupendous wing play from our Callum – shackled by two defenders now – created a few spare feet of space which enabled him to send over a most remarkable deep cross which curved and dipped to hit Morata’s forehead and subsequent downward prod with perfection.

Get in.

There were late changes, with Dave replacing Morata, slotting in at left back to allow Emerson an advanced role. N’Golo Kante then replaced Cesc Fabregas, who hugged David Luiz before slowly walking off to tumultuous applause. I carried out the eulogy for this well-loved player a game too early, but it all still stands. One of the best passers of a ball I have seen at Chelsea. And I think we are definitely dispensing of his services too quickly. He is only thirty-one. But one supposes that he needs first team football, and being a bit-part player for someone such as Cesc is clearly not ideal.

The game continued, but we were never in danger of conceding any silly late goals. Hazard was rather quiet. Emerson enjoyed a few late runs. We peppered the Forest goal with a few shots from distance.

The referee blew and into the next round we went.

Phew.

As I slowly made my way out of the Sleepy Hollow, I watched Cesc Fabregas make a solitary walk towards us in the Matthew Harding. My camera was by now tucked away, so the moment is unable to be shared. But I applauded him as he strode on the Stamford Bridge turf as a Chelsea player for one last time.

He has been magical for us.

He waved to the left. He waved to the right.

We could have sung his song all night.

Tales From The League Leaders

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 22 September 2012.

After a period of inactivity with no Chelsea game for me personally for three whole weeks, we were now well and truly in the thick of it, with two games per week for a while. And yet, I was in a downbeat and melancholy mood on Saturday morning. It was brewing up to be a lovely autumnal day and, if I am truthful, I was almost wondering if I could have put my twelve hours to better use. Frome Town were playing at home against Weston-super-Mare in the F.A. Cup for starters, plus I had some jobs to complete around the house and I kept thinking “that lawn won’t cut itself you know.” The prospect of yet another 220 mile round-trip hardly filled me with joy. In a nutshell, the lure of a home game was not as appealing as it should have been. I drove over to collect Young Jake at Trowbridge using my auto-pilot facility, hoping that my drowsy state would disappear once I became focussed on the day ahead.

Lord Parkins was taking a break for this game; it was just Young Jake and I representing the two towns of Frome and Trowbridge for the visit of Stoke City.

A little banter kept us occupied on the drive up and – yes – my enthusiasm soon returned. Jake is 24 and has seen Chelsea on around 25 occasions. He is still to see a Chelsea away game, but we hope to break that duck this autumn…maybe Swansea, maybe West Brom. I was lucky in that two of my first seven Chelsea games were away games, in Bristol, and I have very strong memories of both those matches from season 1975-1976. Away games are quite different to home games and I can sense that Jake was desperate to experience them. I can’t understand Chelsea fans who attend games at Stamford Bridge only; they do exist, I have met a few of them. They don’t know what they are missing.

It did feel odd to be driving up to The Smoke later in the day than usual. There was a reason for this; I had plans to attend the “start-up” meeting of the Chelsea Supporters Trust later in the evening. More of that later.

I slid into Archel Road at just before 1.30pm and it was a glorious day in London Town. I spent just an hour in the pub – or, rather, the beer garden – and it was the usual hubbub of noise.

On the twenty minute walk to Stamford Bridge, I noted the same old faces trying their best to punt tickets. These touts – or scalpers – are present at every game and, for the life of me, I never understand why Chelsea can’t work in unison with the OB to flush these away from Stamford Bridge.

I bought a programme and noted that Jon Obi Mikel was featured on the front cover. Was this a tacit endorsement of our midfielder by the club, so soon after the brouhaha following his errant pass against Juventus? I hope so. I hope that it wasn’t just a strange coincidence.

I soon noticed a large swathe of empty seats towards the back of The Shed upper. Maybe the touts hadn’t been so successful on this particular day. However, these empty seats eventually filled up over the first twenty minutes of the game.

Over on the western side of The Shed, a new banner caught my attention.

“Welcome to Chelsea FC. The first London team to win the Champions League.”

Nice sentiments, but way too “wordy.”

If I had my way, it would just say –

“Arsenal didn’t. Tottenham didn’t. We did.” (with a small gold star as decoration.)

Frank Lampard and John Terry were sidelined. This meant that Gary Cahill started alongside the erratic David Luiz.

I won’t dwell too much on the game itself on this particular occasion. However, what a contrast in styles; not only between Chelsea and Stoke City, but between Chelsea 2011-2012 and Chelsea 2012-2013. Our little triumvirate of “number tens” were the focus of our attacking play. This, of course, was the first time that Mata, Hazard and Oscar had started together. If we were playing in Italy, I have a feeling that these three players would have already been given a little moniker all of their own. For some reason, Napoli came to mind. Not only the three tenors of Cavani, Lavezzi and Hamsik of last season, but the “Ma-Gi-Ca” trio from the late ‘eighties…Diego Maradona, Bruno Giordano and Careca.

Mata. Hazard. Oscar.

Ma-Ha-Os.

Ma-Os-Ha.

Ha-Os-Ma.

Os-Ha-Ma.

I’ll work on that.

Despite or domination of the game, we hardly troubled Begovic in the Stoke goal. If anything, the visitors had the best two chances of the first-half. At the break, Gary was fuming, but I tried to make the point that this was only the fifth game of the news season and that the team was noticeably different to the team of previous years, with a new way of playing, a new style, new tactics.

Mike Fillery was on the pitch at the break. For four seasons, from 1979 to 1983, he was the kingpin of our midfield. He was a skilful touch-player with a great range of passing, who chipped in with a fair share of goals, too. His team mates included Clive Walker, Tommy Langley, Colin Pates, Ian Britton and Colin Lee. His style was often called languid but the inhabitants of the whitewall, the tea-bar and the benches often called him “lazy.” Both Alan and Gary commented that, despite him now having a limp, he moved around the pitch quicker than when he was playing for us. He left us in the summer of 1983 for the promise of First Division football at QPR. Ah, QPR – where Chelsea players go to retire. In some ways, he left us at just the wrong time. It would have been interesting to see how he would have fitted in as a midfielder in the all-action team of Dixon / Nevin / Speedie (or “Di-Ne-Sp” as we didn’t call them at the time). On the day we beat Derby County 5-0 on the opening day of 1983-1984, Fillery made his QPR debut at Old Trafford and I remember seeing him on “Match of the Day” that night. I’ll be honest, he had been one of my heroes and it just didn’t seem right. Anyway, twenty-nine years later, it was good to see him back at Chelsea.

The second-half continued in a similar vein. The Holy Trinity dominated the play and there were more flicks and back-heels seen at Chelsea for many a year.

There were more flicks on show than at a wedge haircut convention.

Mikel was having a solid game and Ramires was a looking lot more at ease alongside him. I’d suggest that Ramires stays in this position all season long.

As the half progressed, at last the crowd started to make some noise. Victor Moses made his home debut as a substitute and added some instant energy. Fernando Torres was full of honest endeavour, but it just wasn’t working for him. Some of his passing was excellent, though. I made a comment that if only Torres could be on the end of his own through-balls. During the last quarter, Stoke began a few raids on our goal. When substitute Michael Owen appeared – and also Kenwyne Jones – I feared the worst. I made the point – only half in jest – that with Jones, Owen, Crouch and Walters, Stoke probably had a better four attackers in their squad than us.

With five minutes to go, substitute Frank Lampard helped to work the ball out wide. The ball was played in towards Juan Mata who stepped over the ball to allow it to reach the waiting Ashley Cole. With a deft flick, the ball spun up and over the ‘keeper’s despairing block. The ball nestled inside the netting, the crowd burst into life and Ash raced over towards the north-east corner. It was a well worked goal.

Phew.

John Terry came on to protect the lead, replacing Juan Mata in one of the oddest substitutions seen at Chelsea for a while, and we played with five at the back.

We held on.

After the game, I did my annual raid on the club shop and bought a few items. After a quick bite to eat at the “Pizza Express” at Fulham Broadway, I made my way up to the Barrow Boy pub on the North End Road (formerly The Hobgoblin, formerly The Victualler).

Upstairs on the roof terrace, around seventy Chelsea fans assembled for a “Supporters Trust” start-up / feasibility meeting which was hosted by Tim Rolls, Neil Beard, Dave Johnstone and Cliff Auger. The scene was rather plush with the terrace’s perimeter bedecked in canvas; it had the ambience of a Bedouin tent. All very decadent, all very Chelsea. The meeting lasted around ninety minutes.

A representative of Supporters Direct was present to talk through the concept of football trusts, of which there are around 150 in the UK. The meeting, at times, was predictably heated, but I found it very worthwhile. Tellingly, the SD guy stated that virtually all football trusts are formed at times of crisis.

“Crisis? What crisis?” I hear people cry…”we’re Champions of Europe!”

The raison d’etre for this meeting at Chelsea was no doubt instigated by the ramifications of the CPO affair last autumn, but was also linked to the general feeling amongst fan groups that Chelsea Football Club are continually out of touch with its match-going support. Another reason for a supporters trust, I think, is to try to unite the many various Chelsea fan groups which currently exist; in many cases, a trust acts as an umbrella for various factions.

Examples were given to explain how trusts work. Some are very active, some are virtually dormant. It depends on the individual circumstances of each club. On one hand, the Manchester United trust has over 100,000 members but is not acknowledged by the United board. At the other extreme, the trust at Swansea virtually runs the club. In between, there are many different shades. Arsenal only has 1,000 members in its trust, but is seen as a media savvy, political pressure group with a surprising amount of power. Newcastle United, like Chelsea, has many different supporters groups, but they came together to form a 35,000 strong trust. Mike Ashby ignores them, but the NUFC trust has strong links with the local media and council. Clearly, a trust is seen as a more bona fide and credible entity than a normal fans’ group.

It is inevitable that football trusts have more clout at smaller clubs where revenue is more dependent upon match-going fans. At Exeter City, where gates average 3,000, the football club is obviously going to listen to a 1,000 strong football trust since it is in its best interests to have an appreciation of what fans require out of their club. At financially opulent clubs, trusts have a bigger battle.

It was stated that trusts tend to have short term, medium term and long term goals. At many clubs, the long term goal of getting a trust member onto the football board has been accomplished.

Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.

Despite a couple of unsure voices, it was decided to go ahead with the general notion of the Chelsea supporters trust. A follow-up meeting will take place in October or November.

Three points were made which are worthy of further comment.

The Supporters Direct representative emphasised that the Chelsea Pitch Owners are incredibly important to the future of the club. He stated that Chelsea is the only club in Europe whose ground is owned by its fans. Virtually every other club would love to have what we have. It is, as one fan said, the jewel in our crown.

One of the long term goals for a Chelsea trust, rather than aim for the board (unlikely…let’s be honest), might be to get a normal fan to take the internally-appointed Graham Smith’s role as the club’s Supporter Liaison Officer.

A short term goal will be to get many overseas supporters groups to buy in to the idea of a supporters trust. At the meeting, Chelsea in America was mentioned on a few occasions. This is a win-win. The club is desperate to grow its overseas fan base and by getting various foreign groups on board, the club would have to take the trust seriously.

As I left the meeting, I was invigorated by the passion and the common sense of brotherhood engendered amongst my fellow fans. It was a great meeting. It was a great day. I momentarily wandered back to my thoughts in the morning.

How silly of me to think it might have been anything else.

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