Tales From Seventy-Nine Minutes

Posted on March 6, 2015 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 4 March 2015.

In many of these match reports, I have often spoken about running a few errands in my local town before eventually setting-off on a trip to see Chelsea play. It is with great relief that my pre-match on Wednesday 4 March 2015 will never have to be repeated ever again. On the face of it, the three hours that I spent in Frome were as sombre a period of my life that I have had to endure. I firstly collected my mother’s death certificate and I then spent an hour at the undertaker’s as plans for my mother’s funeral took shape. However, if I am honest, I managed to get through this potentially traumatic period with few moments of heartache. That I was with a very dear friend throughout made this testing time so much easier.

We had a small lunch in the café adjoining my village post office and as the time passed, I admitted that I was not relishing the drive to London and then the evening game at West Ham.

My friend reassured me :

“Once you get going, you’ll love it.”

I collected Parky at around 3.30pm and my friend was of course correct. As I drove east, stopping for a large coffee en route, my mood had perked-up considerably. I made great time. The roads were clear, and I was parked-up at around 6pm. We rushed to Earl’s Court and met Dave The Hat in the increasingly familiar Courtfield pub. There was just time to knock back a pint of lager before catching a District Line train at just after 6.30pm. Halfway through the journey, all was well. We were eating up the miles and we envisioned that our arrival time at Upton Park would be just after 7.15pm. The laughs were bouncing back between the three of us and all was well with the world.

Or so I thought. There were several moments when I was overcome with horrible pangs of guilt. I was just uneasy with the fact that the pint of lager had loosened my mood slightly and that the three of us were having a proper laugh. I felt as if this was all too soon after my mother’s passing. I felt conflicted. And yet, as I looked around the packed tube train, with several supporters of our opposition sporting the famous claret and blue, there was a reassuring inevitability that I would be here, on this train, on this day, heading over to East London to see Chelsea. I inwardly smiled and silently “tut-tutted.”

Me and my football.

However, at around 7.15pm, the train came to a standstill. It occasionally lurched forward a few yards, but then stopped further. Progress was slow. As we achingly passed through a procession of stations at a ridiculously slow speed, the three of us began to re-evaluate our predicted arrival time. As the minutes passed, we realised that we wouldn’t make kick-off. An announcement detailed heavy traffic at Upton Park. Dave hoped that the kick-off would be delayed; the voices of some West Ham fans in our compartment watching the game unfold on their mobiles told the true story. At around 7.55pm, a full ten minutes after the match had begun – I hadn’t heard any squeals of pain or shouts of joy from the West Ham contingent – we alighted at Upton Park, just after a full train load had deposited some other fans on the platform. Again, progress was slow.

Out into the night, past the market and the Queens pub, we hurriedly walked. We were drawn towards the floodlights of the Boleyn Ground like moths to a flame. Many Chelsea fans were walking with us. At last, I entered the turnstiles and then in to the narrow concourse behind the away enclosure.

A check of my ticket again…row Q…ah, there’s Alan and Gary, good stuff.

It was still 0-0. There were twenty-one minutes on the clock.

Gary quickly updated me :

“We began well, Chris, then they’ve got into it.”

It was the same team as on Sunday save for the additions of Courtois and Oscar. Despite the floodlights, it seemed particularly murky. I could hardly believe that we chose to wear our dark and dingy black number. Why not the bright yellow? It simply made no sense. This was my first ever night game at Upton Park; it was only my tenth ever visit. For many seasons, I wasn’t tempted to venture. From 1995 to 2008, there was just one trip.

In a horrible fore-shadowing of recent events, our 4-1 defeat in May 1988 is remembered by me as being particularly sad. That loss would eventually cost us our place in the top division within a few weeks, though the loss is not the only reason that causes that game to haunt me so. My maternal grandmother’s funeral was to take place the next day. Those two days were tough. I shan’t really miss Upton Park once West Ham move to their new home in 2016.

And then, only a minute or so after reaching my place on the away terrace, the away fans saw Eden Hazard move at will towards the opposition. The noise around me grew as the move developed. The ball was played out towards Ramires, who quickly played the ball back in towards the six yard box. There was a thrust towards the ball by a Chelsea player in black.

The net rippled. The Chelsea fans roared.

I smiled, I shouted,

“It’s all about timing, Al.”

We were ahead and I had only been in the stadium for about a minute.

Phew.

The remaining twenty-three minutes, with an added four minutes of extra-time, seemed to race past. We peppered their goal with a few chances, but West Ham really should have equalised when a horribly unmarked Sakho headed tamely at Courtois. Zouma was a dominating presence in our midfield, but was injured just before the break; thankfully he was able to carry on. There had been bookings. This was going to be a tough, old-fashioned London derby. Billy Bonds versus Chopper Harris, the Krays versus the Richardsons, Julian Dicks versus Dennis Wise, James Collins versus Diego Costa.

There was an extra four minutes at the end of the half.

“That’s for us poor buggers who got in late.”

At half-time, my recent past caught up with me and a few good friends wanted to share their condolences about the loss of my dear mother and to give me a hug. The reaction among my Chelsea mates to my mother’s recent passing has not surprised me; I knew that I could count on my closest friends to smother me in comforting words and warm wishes. However, the reaction of others, outside my immediate circle of friends, has simply blown me away. I was informed that my mother was remembered with a toast in Nashville and New York before the game on Sunday. There have been the kindest of words from many other locations too.

I thank you all.

Unlike the first-half, the second-half dragged on so slowly. Neither Gary nor I could believe that only fifteen, then twenty, then twenty-five minutes had passed.

There is no doubt about it; we rode our luck in the second period. For many minutes, West Ham dominated possession and it seemed inevitable that an equaliser would come. They went close on a number of occasions, but we had to thank the magnificent agility of Courtois to keep their efforts out. I lost count of the number of times that Chelsea defenders threw themselves at the ball in order to block a shot or pass. In our midfield, both Oscar and Fabregas were struggling to get any foothold in the game. Eden Hazard, as always, was our leading light. A superb run from deep was followed by a pass to Ramires, who twisted past Collins before rolling a ball past the impressive Adrian and against the base of the far post. For all of the home team’s dominance, we ought to have increased our lead. The same combination, our number ten and seven, again linked but Adrian easily saved from a Ramires header.

This was a tempestuous and spirited game of football.

More efforts on our goal by Sakho, but also more wonderful saves from Courtois.

Willian replaced the lacklustre Oscar.

A clear moon, almost full, looked down on the game, which became even more heated as the minutes slowly passed.

Terry and Kouyate clashed heads and there would be extra minutes at the end because of it. Ivanovic, a hero of late, took his time and crashed a shot goalwards, only for his shot to seemingly strike the lower arm of a defender. Another free header at the other end was wasted by Sakho.

We were hanging on.

The referee added on an extra six minutes at the ninety minute mark. Within that period, we had another gift-wrapped chance to score another. Eden Hazard jinked into the box, and surely should have curled a low shot past Adrian, but instead elected to roll the ball square to Willian. His firm shot was blocked on the line, as dramatically as it gets, by Cresswell.

The away end howled.

Diego Drogba entered the fray, replacing Diego Costa. Thankfully, we withstood some pressure and then killed time in the West Ham half. I didn’t even notice that Loic Remy came on for Hazard.

All eyes were on the referee.

At around 9.45pm in the heart of the East End, Andre Marriner blew his whistle.

Another vital three points were loudly celebrated by us all and the players took great pleasure in slowly walking towards us to accept our cheers. This felt like a massive win. It also felt like a somewhat fortuitous win.

As I met up with Parky outside the gates, I simply said –

“File under lucky.”

There was a long and tedious return back to civilisation, involving a walk to Plaistow and then a wait in a queue to reach the platform. We eventually boarded the train and headed west. At 11.30pm, we met up with Bob from San Francisco at a familiar Italian restaurant known by many. It had been a tough game and at times we had struggled. Yes, Manchester City had won against a lowly Leicester, but we had won a potentially awkward game at West Ham.

The omens, whisper it, were looking good.

The temperature of the night air was now dropping fast as we walked past the familiar hostelries near West Brompton. I set off for home at 12.30am and was so tired that I needed to stop at Membury Services, deep in Wiltshire, at around 2am, to sleep for thirty minutes.

I eventually reached home at around 4am.

It had been a long day, but the twin comforts of friends and football had served me well.

Tales From The Bread And Butter

Posted on February 1, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 29 January 2014.

As I picked up Lord Parky and his son-in-law Kris at around 4pm, there was a good ‘’buzz” about the evening game with West Ham United. After the distraction of cup football on Sunday, there was the reassuring feeling of normality being restored for a run-of-the-mill league game. This was a bread and butter game, although this one was important enough – with various sub-plots beneath the surface – to resemble a cheese-stuffed crust deep pan pizza with all the toppings known to mankind.

Chelsea versus West Ham United is always one of the home games of each season. Maybe not on a par with the London derbies against the ugly sisters from North London, but one which still resonates after all of these years.

It had been a busy day thus far. I had woken up at 5am to work an early shift in order to pay a quick visit to my steadily improving mother at the hospital in Bath. Mum’s smiles certainly cheered me. It seems that there are few subjects that I’m unable to wrap at least one football story around. So, as is my wont, here is my Royal United Hospital / football story.

Back in the early ‘seventies, it seemed that I spent a ridiculously disproportionate amount of time visiting various ailing elderly relatives at the largest hospital in my home area. My dear gran had both hips replaced on two separate occasions and, of course, I didn’t mind visiting her. It was all of the others; distant aunts and uncles, plus neighbours and even some people who I was unfamiliar with (why are we visiting THEM?) from various towns and villages who I hardly ever saw in normal circumstances, yet found myself visiting ad infinitum. The almost weekly Sunday trudge through the streets of Bath and the oh-so familiar pilgrimage to the “RUH” used to be bore me rigid. The only thing which got me through the awful tedium was the promise of being able to disappear off to the day room at the end of each ward in order to watch “The Big Match” which used to air after lunch each Sunday. Often Dad would accompany me; he, too, was no doubt bored to distraction with all of the bedside small talk. If the truth be known, I am sure – such was the acknowledgement from my parents of my love for football – that the Sunday visits were conveniently timed for me to be able to bugger off and watch an hour of football while visits took place.

So, Sunday afternoons in 1971 and 1972 at the RUH in Bath were often spent watching the domed head of Brian Moore introducing games from White Hart Lane, Upton Park, Selhurst Park, Highbury and – sometimes – Stamford Bridge. It acted as a little respite from the dullness of Aunt Nell rambling on about her recent operation or Mrs. Barton complaining about the hospital food.

I can picture the large black and white TV screen, high on a stand. The hushed reverence while people watched. In fact, the day room always seemed to be packed with men, presumably seeking solace away from the never-ending amount of chattering in the main ward. It seemed like a little private club. I am sure that not everyone were fans of football though. Some, no doubt, were using it as a refuge. I can distinctly remember an interchange that took place one afternoon between my father and one particularly gormless relative who had been watching the football on TV for a quite few minutes before we arrived in the day room.

My father asked him who were playing.

“Uh. I’m not sure.”

My father and I looked at each other and we both stifled a smirk. Later in the day, Dad would comment to me, his face full of mirth, “how Michael could be watching the football and not know who were playing I will never know.”

I agreed. It probably took me a couple of seconds to work out the ground, the home team, the away team, even allowing for a kit change.

Once at the RUH, I specifically remember Don Rodgers, the moustachioed winger, playing for Crystal Palace in the days when their kit, also, included the West Ham colours of claret and blue, and putting in a ‘man of the match’ performance against Manchester United. No doubt, there were sightings too of Osgood, Hollins, Bonetti, Garland, Hutchinson, Mulligan, Hinton et al on various Sunday afternoons. That era was a fine one for a young lad from Somerset to first get into football. It is widely regarded that the early ‘seventies were the height of the fashion for show-boating entertainers. Not every team could win a trophy, although the league seemed ridiculously open compared to recent times, but my goodness there was some fun along the way. These were heady times. It is no doubt a cliché, but the game was full of characters. Most teams had at least one luxuriously gifted player. We had several; Peter Osgood, Charlie Cooke and Alan Hudson were our three entertainers. Elsewhere, there was Frank Worthington, Tony Currie, Stan Bowles, Rodney Marsh, George Best and Derek Dougan, plus many more. In the modern era, there are – of course – entertaining players. In recent years, we have been blessed with Gianfranco Zola, Joe Cole, Arjen Robben, Juan Mata and Eden Hazard to name a few. However, the focus is slightly different today. Entertaining players today use their skills to an end; to get past markers, to aid the team. In those days, there seemed to be a slightly different approach. As an example, wingers had an almost rabid desire to go on ridiculously mazy dribbles with the sole intention of entertaining the crowd rather than assisting towards a goal. Or there would be a ludicrous lobbed pace into the path of an attacker. Or occasionally a little passage of head tennis between team mates. Or a deftly disguised back heel with the sole intention of making the opponent look stupid. These days, football is all about results. In those days – God, I feel old – footballers tried to entertain too.

The traffic on the M4 was far from entertaining. Although there was little rain, for once, traffic was stacked up at a couple of places. Eventually, I parked-up at just after 7pm. As the three of us raced off, I grimly warned Parky and Kris –

“Right. We have a choice. A pint or getting in for the kick-off.”

At 7.15pm, the three of us were lined-up in front of the Peroni pump in The Goose, waiting for Lorraine to serve us. We rarely drink in the front section of the pub. It seemed odd to be there. It also seemed odd to see the lads traipse out past us, one after the other; we had only just arrived and they were already off.

“Hello. Goodbye.”

Then, that ridiculously rare occurrence; Rob leaving the pub before me.

Maybe for the first time ever.

On the Tuesday, I had read that tickets for the game were still on general sale. This worried me. Despite the claims of others that we are anything but a big club, we have played to virtual sell-outs for ages.

Despite my warning about missing the kick-off, we arrived just in time. Kris and I sat next to Alan and Tom with about a minute to spare. As always, I checked to see if there were any empty seats. To my great surprise and pleasure, The Bridge was full yet again. However, there was a section of around three hundred empty seats in the West Ham section.

“That’s poor” I commented to Alan.

When was the last time Chelsea failed to take a full three thousand to any London derby? It was so long ago that I can’t remember.

Soon into the game, there was the inevitable “WWYWYWS?” being bellowed at us by the sub-3K West Ham fans.

Ha.

The Irons and irony.

“You can’t even bring three thousand to Chelsea, you mugs. Good luck in The Olympic Stadium.”

As the game began, Vince arrived in the seat in front. He used to have a season ticket for a few years. I hadn’t seen him for a bit. He was in Albert’s seat, who is in New Zealand for two months. I asked him about his twelve year old boy.

“How is he? Still West Ham?”

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Gooner.”

…glum faces from Alan and me.

“He doesn’t like football, then?”

Prior to the game, Kris and I had talked about our score predictions. I went for a 3-0 repeat of the game at Upton Park. After all, we were on a run of seven wins on the trot. In the away game, West Ham had been dire. I was hopeful of a good Chelsea win.

The game began. Or rather, the cavalcade of missed chances and missed opportunities began.

Rather than list every one, here are the highlights, or perhaps the lowlights.

After the ball broke to Willian, he sent a superb deep ball over to Oscar on the other side of the West Ham penalty box. The slight but deceptively strong Brazilian cut inside and struck a magnificent shot goal bound. Sadly, Adrian tipped it over the bar.

A fine pumped ball from Branislav Ivanovic was headed down by Eden Hazard into the path of Samuel Eto’o. Sadly, the shot flew high over the bar.

“That’s the sort of Route One Football I like to see, though, Al.”

There was soon a reminder of the corresponding game last season; the day that Frank Lampard reached a double century of goals. The occupants of the Shed Upper, were soon singing “their song.”

“Frankie Lampard…scored two hundred…”

And it is their song; they were the ones who first sang it, that section sings it more than any other parts of the stadium. This is a first; I’ve never known one song to be favoured by one section of the stadium over all other areas.

We had begun reasonably well, but as the game continued we struggled to maintain the same levels.

A Ramires rising drive flew over.

Just before the break, a Willian corner was headed towards goal by John Terry, but the ‘keeper did very well to kick the ball away.

Then, Eto’o found an inch of space inside the box but his firm blast was turned around the near post by Adrian.

The second-half began with several Chelsea chances, beginning with a Hazard strike from an angle. Again, it flew over the bar.

The Matthew Harding had a special song aimed at the visitors –

“Frankie Lampard – He’s Won More Than You.”

With every tackle that took place, with every West Ham foul, the noise levels increased. The referee – he wasn’t familiar, who was he? – kept showing restraint in booking any West Ham player despite numerous opportunities. There is nothing like a sense of continued injustice to help raise the noise levels a few notches. At times, it was a cracking atmosphere.

I was doing my bit. I was enjoying the fact that the home crowd were singing hard for the team.

I thought to myself:

“Who knows, I just might go home with a sore throat? It used to happen all the time. Not so much these days. Pah.”

After all our pressure, West Ham broke down our right, quite against the run of play. The ball eventually fell at the feet of the hapless Andy Carroll who thankfully miss-cued. A goal then would have been hard to take.

Still the chances came and went. I lost count of the number of weak shots right at Adrian.

Very often, West Ham ‘doubled-up’ on Eden Hazard. He continued to be our main threat. Willian, was full of running, but his end product was poor.

Mourinho made a double substitution; quite a surprising one, too. On came Lampard and Matic. They replaced Mikel and Azpilicueta, but Ramires moved to right back and Ivanovic to left-back. I, for one, would never have guessed those moves.

Lampard provided more forward thrust, and soon found himself inside the box but his shot was blocked. Mourinho made another move. Oscar made way for Demba Ba. I was convinced that someone – ANYONE – would score the all-important goal to give us the win. The chances still flew high and wide. After a bursting run from Eden Hazard – we are so lucky to see his runs deep into the box from our vantage point in the MHU – a poke from Ba, close in, and we hit the near post. This was just ridiculous.

The West Ham ‘keeper went down and we suspected time-wasting. The whole game had been riddled with this particularly unsavoury Allardyce tactic. He did it at Bolton and he is doing it at West Ham. I presumed that a free-kick had been awarded, so waited for it to be taken. Samuel Eto’o obviously misheard or misunderstood the signals – or whistle – and ran in from outside the box to slam the ball in just as Adrian was presumably about to take the kick.

Some celebrated. Some didn’t.

I didn’t.

I was just confused.

Then, there was a perfect chance for Frank Lampard to settle it. That man Hazard dribbled past some defenders and played the ball right into the path of the on-rushing Lampard.

This was it. We inhaled.

“Go on Frank.”

The ball was hit right at Adrian.

Stamford Bridge groaned.

With this, many Chelsea fans decided to leave.

A shame.

They missed even more absurd misses.

Eden Hazard, receiving the ball from Ivanovic, decided to opt for an alternative approach to get past his usual two markers. He drew them close and then offered them a pack of playing cards. Both of the two defenders took a card apiece and Hazard then returned them to the pack. There was the usual shuffle of the cards. The two defenders stood bemused. With a flash, Eden then reached down to the socks of both players and pulled out the two cards which the West Ham defenders had originally selected. They stood, hands on hips, and then looked towards each other with a look of pure amazement. Spotting his opportunity to act, Hazard raced past the defenders and crossed, only for the ball to hit Samuel Eto’o on the arse and the ball flew past the post.

Ramires, getting more and more annoyed as every dash through the West Ham midfield resulted in a succession of badly-timed tackles, opted to use another sport to defeat the opposition. He caught the ball in mid-air, stuffed it up his shirt, began whistling the Harlem Globetrotters’ theme tune, and then dribbled into the six-yard, bouncing the ball like Curly Neal, before slam dunking the ball over the bar.

John Terry, the master of the chest pass, took his own personal trademark move to ridiculous lengths. The referee signalled a free-kick in the “D” after a thigh high challenge by Noble on Ivanovic. With Lamps and Hazard eyeing up a strike, John Terry joined them. After a heated conversation, involving lots of gesturing, Frank and Eden withdrew. John Terry lined up the ball, stepped to one side and then threw himself at the ball, sliding on the floor and making contact with the ball with his chest. The ball moved forward no further than a couple of feet. The West Ham ‘keeper was, inevitably, untroubled.

Lampard, breaking through after a great ball from Gary Cahill, was met by a strong challenge from Kevin Nolan. Frank fell to the floor, with Nolan falling on top of him. After a little light grappling, Frank heaved himself up, decided that animosity was not the way forward, pulled a bouquet of blue carnations out of his shorts and offered them to the West Ham midfielder as a peace offering. Nolan smiled, lifted them to his nose and inhaled. During that lapse in concentration, Frank seized his chance. He whipped past Nolan but then miss hit his swipe at the ball and fell over.

It just wasn’t our night.

Back in The Goose, we were pragmatic about our wasted chances. On another night, we would have scored six. However, this was a similar story to the Stoke game.

“On another night…”

We miss a goal scorer and we miss him bad.

The – ridiculous – news came through that the stats for the game were as follows –

Chelsea – 38 shots.

West Ham – 1 shot.

With Manchester City winning 5-1 at Tottenham, there was a general consensus that the league this year might be beyond us. Manchester City remain the firm favourites. No doubt. In fact, the two points that we dropped against West Ham might turn out to be irrelevant in the grand scheme of things as City might run away with it. The point that West Ham secured, though, might just keep them up.

Bollocks.

After a long delay on leaving London, I eventually reached home at 1.30am. There was the usual run through of the photographs I had taken, plus a scan of the internet for post-match opinions. A quick examination of my photographs revealed that, in fact, West Ham had only sold around two thousands tickets; it was Chelsea fans in that final section in the Shed Upper.

Two bloody thousand?

That made the draw even harder to stomach.

Manchester City next.

Lovely.

Tales From The Boleyn Ground

Posted on November 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2013.

As I drove in to London on the elevated section of the M4 motorway, I caught sight of the cluster of skyscrapers in the City, some five or six miles further east. London is neither Chicago nor New York, but I am always excited by the sight of the Nat West Tower, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin and The Shard. Within an hour or so, I would be beyond these monoliths to industry, trade and finance and I would be nestled in an East End hostelry. The journey to the nation’s capital had been quick and easy. The late autumnal gold and orange hues of the journey from Somerset contrasted with the light greys of the London afternoon. I was soon parked-up and quickly disappeared through the large and imposing art deco façade of Acton Town tube station. The District Line took me to Westminster, and from there the Jubilee Line snaked south, east and then north towards West Ham tube station.

A visit to Upton Park has never been an enjoyable trip for me; it is, undoubtedly, my least liked away game. Thirty years ago, the threat of violent acts was reason enough for me to be wary. The aura surrounding the tightly-knit ICF meant that a foray down Green Street was akin to walking the gang plank. Thankfully, those days have passed. Today however, there is still a general tawdriness about the locale which eats away at my enthusiasm on match days. In the violent ‘eighties, the away end was the infamous South Bank, now the site of the Bobby Moore Stand and the home supporters. My first two visits were horrendous affairs; a 5-3 loss in the early months of 1986-1987 and a 4-1 loss in the closing stages of 1987-1988. The latter game effectively saw us relegated. It was gut-wrenching stuff. Since then, my visits have been relatively rare and I’ve only started visiting Upton Park regularly over the past five or six seasons. In the years when I could only afford to go to five or six away games each season, Upton Park remained way down the pecking order. This would be my ninth visit.

Of course, with West Ham United soon to de-camp to the former Olympic Stadium in 2016, there will only be a few more trips to the scruffy, down-at-heel streets around the Boleyn Ground left. I’m not convinced that many West Ham fans are too enamoured with a move away from their spiritual home. It would be trite for me to say that I am not going to waste too much time concerning myself with what West Ham fans think, but we should all be wary about teams moving out of their historic homes into new stadia. I’d imagine that, given the choice, most Hammers would prefer to see Upton Park redeveloped rather than move a few miles north-west to Stratford. However, I am sure that the board members of Chelsea Football Club be watching with interest once West Ham United move in to their new luxurious residence in August 2016. The dream scenario for me would be for The Irons to be opening up in The Championship. In such circumstances, surely gates of 35,000 rattling around inside a sterile new stadium will be a nightmare for West Ham fans who, at times, used to produce an intimidating atmosphere in the tightness of Upton Park.

I’ll watch with interest to see how this stadium move eventually works itself out.

At just after three o’clock, I alighted at Plaistow tube station. In the ticket hall, I looked back west towards those tower blocks and skyscrapers of the City of London, the mid-afternoon sky darkening by the minute but with the slight tint of the first few moments of an eventual sunset. I soon joined up with a few fellow Chelsea mates who were drinking in “The Black Lion.” This was a first-time visit for me. Just inside the long narrow bar, Rob, Gary, Andy, Daryl, Walnuts, Dave, Steve and I spent an enjoyable ninety minutes, supping lager and sharing laughs. It goes without saying that none of us were marked as Chelsea supporters. We were a small Chelsea enclave in a hot bed of West Ham supporters. The boozer was crowded and the bar staff busy. We were in enemy territory. We kept ourselves to ourselves. We blended in well. Contrary to popular belief, the locals were neither happy, smiling Cockneys, prone to singing “Bubbles” nor psychopathic hoodlums. They seemed quite – whisper it – normal.

At just before 5 o’clock, we threw our jackets on and walked the best part of a mile east towards the ground. There was time for the briefest of chats with Gary about how watching England now disinterests both of us. In fact, International breaks tend to bore us all to death these days. I made the point to Gary that, seasoned football follower that I am, I find myself picking and choosing what aspects of the wide world of football I choose to pre-occupy myself with these days. To be blunt, I’d rather watch my local non-league team than the national team. I’d rather read a good book on football than watch a game on TV. I’d rather plan the next away day than bother listening to another Premiership team on the radio.

“Been there, seen that, got the replica shirt with number and player’s name.”

There was a brief “meet and greet” outside the away turnstiles with a few friends and this resulted in me missing the kick-off. By the time I had squeezed my way in to row N behind the goal, I’d missed the entrance of the teams and all of that “Pretty Bubbles In The Air” bollocks. I find that the away end at West Ham – formerly the Centenary Stand, now the Trevor Brooking Stand – is particularly shallow.

The first thing that hit me was how good we looked in the white / blue / blue. Next, I realised that Mikel and Ramires were in the holding positions and so this must mean that Frank Lampard was one of “the three.”

I’ll be honest; Frank has looked a little tired of late and so maybe Jose was risking it a little. Alongside Frank were Oscar and Hazard. At the back, JT was paired with GC again. After a couple of fine performances, Dave retained his place at left-back.

A quick scan of the West Ham team and it soon became obvious that Sam Allardyce was playing with no obvious striker.

The first-half began and it was a scrappy affair. A few Chelsea half-chances and a block from John Terry denied former Blue Joe Cole. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by Jaaskelainen on Oscar resulted in a penalty to Chelsea.

At moments like that, how I wish I had put £20 on Frank to score first. True enough, with camera poised, up-stepped our leading goal scorer to blast high into the West Ham net. Frank couldn’t resist; he ran towards the spectators in the Bobby Moore, right arm lifted, and no doubt muttered a few personal epithets to the watching thousands.

Alan : “They’ll ‘Ave Ta Cam At Us Nah.”

Chris : “Cam Own Moi Li’ul Dimons.”

I even did a Cockney – arms in braces – victory jig.

To my right, the blue smoke from a flare billowed in and around the celebrating hordes.

Our play became more focussed and our goal scoring chances increased. We moved the ball intelligently and Frank Lampard found himself in acres of space in the middle of the park. He in turn moved the ball on to Eden Hazard, who flicked the ball into the path of a raiding Oscar. The away end were on tip-toes as our little Brazilian dribbled forward, with no West Ham defender able to shackle him, and we watched as he dispatched the ball into the goal, tucking it neatly just inside the left post.

We roared again.

The Chelsea fans around me had been in good voice for all of the first-half and we goaded the home fans further :

“We’re the only team in London with the European Cup.”

How I love that song…it was sung over and over and over.

And then, a song especially for West Ham’s most successful former player :

“Frankie Lampard – he’s won more than you.”

Just before the break, a sad sight. Joe Cole was substituted. I watched as he raced off the pitch. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who remembers Joe being hooked off at Fulham in 2006 after just twenty minutes by Jose.

A few hundred West Ham fans in the East Stand to our left decided to take on the might of the Chelsea away support by initiating a few songs aimed at us. One rather rotund West Ham fan was singled out and taunted :

“Gone for the salad. You should have gone for the salad.”

The first-half had been all Chelsea. There has to be one special mention for a great piece of defensive covering by Cesar Azpilicueta, who raced over from his left-back position to quell a rare West Ham attack. Top marks. The boy is doing well at the moment.

Soon into the second-half, a thunderous Gary Cahill header was hacked off the line by Mark Noble.

Then, a fine flowing move which involved an improving Eto’o, found Oscar unmarked on the far post but he volleyed over.

With the match seemingly safe, the three thousand Chelsea fans – all standing, of course – dipped into the pages of the travelling support songbook and created a roll-call for an assortment of much-loved former players. We began, as so often is the case, with a song – almost seasonal now – for Peter Osgood.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star, scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.”

Then, in a five minute period, the songs continued, praising several other Chelsea legends.

“Oh Jimmy, Jimmy – Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

“Super, Super Dan – Super Dan Petrescu.”

“Oh Dennis Wise, scored a fackin’ great goal.”

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

Then, a song which brought a smile to my face.

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Joey Cole, Joey Cole.”

Although Joe has completed a full footballing circle now, from West Ham to West Ham, and although he joined Liverpool with a few disparaging comments aimed at Chelsea Football Club, he is still in our hearts. This was, to use the oft-quoted phrase, “Proper Chelsea” – singing the name of a rival player. In light of the abuse that Frank Lampard has received at the hands of the bitter followers of his former team, this made a refreshing change. I sincerely hope that Joe, showered and changed, was sitting within the stadium and was able to hear the words aimed towards him. As if to rub it in further, there was just time for one more.

“Joey Cole – he’s won more than you.”

The game continued on with Chelsea in the ascendency. Eto’o curled one just wide of the post. There was an air of relaxed calm in the away end, but I feared a West Ham goal might change things dramatically. West Ham substitute Maiga fluffed his lines at the far post and steered the ball wide when it looked easier to score. After an Eden Hazard shot was blocked, the ball fell invitingly for Frank to effortlessly guide the ball low and into the West Ham goal.

“YES!”

Frank raced over to celebrate in front of the celebrating three thousand and I hopped up on to my seat.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

In one photo, Frank seems to be looking at me right in the eyes.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Get in.

We quickly walked out into the cold East London night with a bounce in our step. The home fans, some with claret and blue bar scarves wrapped around their necks, were mute. Alan and Gary decided to wait in line at the back of the large queue at Upton Park tube, but I decided to retrace my steps back to Plaistow. The “clip-clop” of a couple of police horses accompanied a few stragglers as we hurriedly walked the mile west. Once at Plaistow, there was a further wait on a crowded platform, but eventually the train took us back to West Ham tube station. I can well remember the journey on this District Line that my friend Gill and I took just under a year ago, our beloved team humiliated 3-1 by West Ham amidst turmoil, unrest and acrimony in the Chelsea end with Benitez at the helm. At the time, we sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t get any worse in 2012-2013.

Actually, it didn’t.

From my perspective, Upton Park 2012 was a recent low-water mark for Chelsea Football Club.

In 2013, Upton Park provided a far rosier picture. I texted Gill and she was able to share the moment.

By 9pm, I was back at Earl’s Court, knee deep in penne arrabiata in my favourite Italian restaurant, watching Benitez’ new team lose 1-0 at home to Parma.

And we were back in the hunt for the title.

Happy days.

Tales From The District Line Derby

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 17 March 2013.

I was decidedly under the weather on Friday and Saturday. The drive up to London for the West Ham United game did not overly excite me, despite the prolonged after-glow of the second-half comeback at Old Trafford and our progression into the last eight of the Europa League. With Parky unable to attend again, I set off for London at 10.30am. By the time I had reached Warminster, I was shocked to see the higher ground dusted with snow. We are rarely troubled by snowfall in mid-March. By the time I had headed up and over Salisbury Plain, I was surrounded by the white stuff. I needed to put my sunglasses on; the glare was intense.

The recent story concerning Chelsea’s trip to the United States being tagged on the end of the current season – still nothing more than a tabloid rumour at this stage of course – had left me rather confused and underwhelmed. If true, it just about summed the season up, one which is already on its way to being the longest and messiest in our history.

To recap once more; eight different competitions, two managers, Civil War amongst the supporters, games from Seattle in the west to Yokohama in the east, games in Kiev and Kazan, five games against Manchester United, possibly four games against Manchester City, possibly three Cup Finals, the games go on and on, mile after mile, time zone after time zone.

And at the end of it, when the players are almost down and out, a return trip to New York?

To me, that makes no sense.

In fact, personally speaking, I was totally disinterested by the prospect of a US tour. I’ve been lucky enough to attend games at each and every one of our 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2012 US tours and yet this one, to be possibly added at the end of this hangover of a season, left me cold. My ambivalence truly shocked me.

“You know what, Chelsea – I’m boycotting it.”

In truth, with a potential Europa League Cup Final taking place on Wednesday 15 May, it will surprise nobody to know that I’d be unlikely to be able to do both. Contrary to popular opinion, I do show up for work occasionally.

I tried re-focusing on the game against West Ham United. I wondered if Joe Cole might play a part. Should he do so, I was convinced that we would shower him with thanks and applause in lieu of his seven years with us, rather than mirror the venomous scorn which greets Frank Lampard every time he plays West Ham. They are truly obsessed by him, aren’t they? How very unhealthy for them. All that negativity. I guess they will never change.

I collected Bournemouth Steve at Amesbury at 11.30am and the weather soon deteriorated further. We were hit with a grey melange of rain and road spray. The driving conditions were terrible. Steve’s last game was against QPR – what a shocker that was – and we spent a few minutes reviewing the state of affairs at the club. I answered a few of his questions and – maybe it was the weather which darkened my mood – my responses obviously surprised him.

“You seem disillusioned, Chris.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

This has been, after all, a pretty shambolic follow-up to our coronation as Champions of Europe last May.

I stopped for a coffee at Fleet and then made good speed on the approach into London. I travelled in past Twickenham, then over the Thames. A mile or so to the north, Chelsea were playing Juventus in the Next Gen Cup at Brentford’s Griffin Park. Had I been feeling slightly better, there’s no doubt I would have attempted to catch that game on the way in to London. Instead, I was only “up” for the main event.

I strolled into the busy pub at about 1.45pm. There were St. Patricks Day hats being worn by the bar-staff and clientele alike. I had made a conscious decision of not choosing a green pullover for the day out of protest. The lads were already up to their eyes in lager. Feeling rather groggy, I was giving it all a rather large swerve. Dave, one of the New York Blues who now resides in London, arrived and we had a good old natter while Sunderland and Norwich struggled to attract our attention on the TV screen above. The length of the current season caused us much amazement.

Dave exclaimed “we could still have eighteen games to play yet!”

I was, to be quite plain, stunned.

Eighteen more games? I quickly did some arithmetic.

League – ten.
Europa – five.
F.A. Cup – three.

Yep – eighteen games.

If you add in the potential US tour, twenty games plus.

“Stop the season. I want to get off.”

It was a cold and wet walk down to Stamford Bridge. By the time Dave and I had reached the turnstiles to the MHU – he had tickets a few seats away from me – my jacket was sodden. We decided to head inside to “Jimmy’s” to dry out and for yet more dissection of the current state of affairs at Chelsea Football Club. We spoke – in general terms – about the size of our club and, specifically, of previous US tours and our American fan base, the reluctance of the club to seriously consider plans for stadium enlargement, the thorny subject of ticket prices and the idiosyncratic way in which Roman runs the club. After our chat, there is little wonder that the mood was hardly lifted.

I made my way up the stairs to the upper tier. Once inside, Stamford Bridge looked grey and still. Alan, himself still struggling with a head cold, was able to confirm that Fulham were still beating Tottenham at White Hart Lane. If we could beat West Ham, a little daylight would appear between us and Spurs. With a game in hand on them, we could open up a nice little gap. And here is the strange dichotomy. Despite our warm feelings for last season, we need no reminding that we finished a lowly sixth at the end of the league campaign. This season, despite a tough run-in, I still feel that a third place finish is very achievable.

So – an improvement in the league.

But, my goodness, it doesn’t feel like it does it?

There were plenty of team changes from the win against Steaua on Thursday. In came Gary Cahill, Frank Lampard, Victor Moses and Demba Ba. In the end, Joe Cole was not involved.

What an array of missed chances in the first-half. Demba Ba was presented with the first real chance. He was clean through with only Jaaskelainan to beat. However, against his former team, he had the Fernando Torres jitters and poked the ball well wide. At the other end, Collins crashed a shot over the bar.

John Terry then produced a little piece of pure theatre. He began warming up in front of the family section in the East Lower, but then drifted down to the corner flag adjacent to the baying away support. If the West Ham fans dislike Frank first and foremost, then John is just behind. There were chants about – I am sure – John’s mother. He just stood by the corner flag and took it all. I looked away and then heard a roar. Alan told me that our captain made a point of bending over, with his backside towards the Hammers.

He then walked over to the corner flag once more, turned towards the away fans and began reciting the famous soliloquy from Hamlet –

“To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”

The West Ham supporters, such Philistines, were clearly no fans of William Shakespeare and the booing continued. Not to be outdone, John Terry then set light to five torches which he then began juggling in front of the claret and blue hordes. He showed great manual dexterity as the torches flew up into the air, then returned, the smoke adding to the drama. Still, the booing did not relent.

“Tough crowd” whispered our captain.

He then produced a flipchart in which he detailed a cure for the common cold.

Still more boos.

“Ah, fcuk you, then…”

On the pitch, a few yards away, a shot from Eden Hazard was cleared, but only as far as Juan Mata. With the West Ham defence apparently sleeping, he spotted the unmarked Frank Lampard and hooked a ball back towards the penalty spot. A looping header easily beat the West Ham ‘keeper.

The Stamford Bridge crowd were in rapture. How fantastic that Frank should reach the magnificent milestone of two hundred career Chelsea goals against his former team and in front of their fans. He raced down to the corner, kicked away John Terry’s flipchart and joined his captain in joyous celebration. The rest of his team mates soon joined in.

How perfect.

Well, not quite. How on earth had I not put some money on Frank to be the first goal scorer?

“Twas written in the stars.”

Just after, West Ham had a goal ruled out for a foul, but then the Chelsea attacks began again. We dominated possession. Efforts from Luiz, Moses and Mata went close. Ba had two more efforts which did not trouble the West Ham ‘keeper.

“This scoring lark isn’t easy, is it?”

Although the forward play of Mata and Hazard excited us, I commented to Alan that it was lovely to see Cesar Azpilicueta play so well. His chasing back and general marking was excellent. By this stage, we had heard that Fulham had held on to win at Tottenham. This was indeed excellent news.

It was more of the same during the second-half. With Mata and Hazard at the heart of all of our attacking play, Alan called them “the fireflies” and I appreciated this term of affection. They were certainly flitting around, with the defenders mesmerized by their movement. Eden Hazard spun away from a marker and initiated a mazy run at the heart of the West Ham defence and soon found himself smothered. With no less than four defenders surrounding him, he managed to extricate himself from this tightest of spots with an exquisite rabona – one of Torres’ tricks – across the box. He was buzzing. Not long after, a lovely move involving the two fireflies resulted in Hazard slamming the ball in with his left foot.

2-0.

The crowd roared again.

He slid towards us on his knees, down in the north-west corner. He was soon mobbed by his smiling team mates.

As the second-half played on, Chelsea carved out more and more chances, though our finishing was quite profligate. A high shot from Lampard was particularly wasteful. One suspects that the West Ham fans were soon muttering “Scott Canham would have scored that.” Despite our chances, West Ham themselves occasionally peppered Petr Cech’s goal, though he was only rarely troubled.

Sam Allardyce brought on Carlton Cole as a late substitute. The Chelsea fans showed some class by warmly applauding our former striker. I can remember his debut, way back in the spring of 2002.

“See, West Ham. That’s how to honour former players.”

I guess they just wouldn’t understand.

Tales From The End Of The Game

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 1 December 2012.

The boys were losing 2-1 and the assistant referee signalled three minutes of extra time. Some of the Chelsea supporters around me had already decided to leave. I had a terrible decision to make. Although it is something that I hate doing (I can only recall four other instances in over 38 years that I had left early), I had decided “enough is enough” and I excused myself.

“See you Wednesday.”

Stern faces.

I made my way out into the tight and narrow concourse of the stand and headed for the exit. At least I would soon be on the train. At least I wouldn’t have to endure a long wait in the queue as it snaked away from the red-brick entrance to the old tube station. Just as I crossed the threshold of the pavement, I heard a roar. Momentarily, I prayed for an equaliser, but I soon heard the home fans in the upper tier banging their hands and fists against the plastic screens. It was an agonising sound.

3-1.

I retraced my steps out onto Tudor Road, hands in pockets, head down, black scarf wrapped high around my face. Alongside me were fellow foot soldiers of the Chelsea nation, uttering oaths of displeasure at the current state of affairs.

I looked up and saw a familiar figure, walking fast and ahead of me. It was Gill. She was talking on the phone. To be honest, I was shocked that she had left before me. Not like her to leave before the end of the game. Not like me to leave before the end of the game.

Desperate times.

I sprinted to catch up with her and we didn’t need to say anything.

We walked briskly back to Upton Park station and quickly hopped on a train which soon took us away from the scene of the latest debacle. As we were joined in the carriage by West Ham fans, we spoke quietly.

“When was the last time we lost here?”

“I know. Shocking.”

In truth, we had been coasting at the break. The songs of disdain which had coloured the chants from the away enclosure in the first portion of the game had even changed to songs of mockery of our opponents. However, the shocking capitulation in the second-half had been utterly depressing. And then the tone changed again in that away section. The air was turned royally blue. The Chelsea support was kicking out, not caring who they hit. Everyone was fair game.

As the train moved from station to station, we spoke of the bleakness of the immediate situation. Our conversation touched a variety of subjects and we attempted to lighten the mood with some cathartic support for each other. But it was difficult. Hearing the Chelsea supporters turning on the club sickened us both. It was clear that there had been a lot of rage in the away end. We continued to chat. We even discussed the slight possibility of at least one of us not attending the upcoming game on Wednesday. Was this a worrying sign of the future? Would my support of the club be severely tested over the next few months? Again, more questions than answers.

And then a morsel of comfort.

Gill mentioned that she was thinking about watching the youngsters up at Middlesbrough on Tuesday. I was truly warmed by her support for the boys.

Even in the blackest skies, there are sparkling crystals of light.

Tales From A Day Of Blackouts And Blowouts

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 23 April 2011.

A quite magnificent day.

This is a good week for us here in England; Good Friday and a day off work, Chelsea at home on St. George’s Day against West Ham, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday and another day off work, then just three days of toil before the Royal Wedding – another day off – and finally the second home game of the week against the old enemy, Tottenham. All of that, plus the added bonus of tons of American visitors in town to share this great week with my usual match day companions.

The Easter weekend began on Friday with another visit to nearby Rowde for a Chelsea Legends night. Back in November, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke were down in the West Country. This time, it was the turn of Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling to accompany Chopper. Our two highest appearance makers and our highest ever goalscorer.

It doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

Suffice to say, we had a lovely time and I particularly enjoyed talking to Bobby Tambling out in the sunny beer garden about a variety of football-related topics. He is from Hayling Island, down near Portsmouth, and he told me the story about the 1953 F.A. Cup Final. He was a boyhood Blackpool fan, lured by the two Stans Matthews and Mortensen. In probably the most famous F.A. Cup Final of all, Bobby told me that he watched the game through a shop window and was mortified to see Blackpool losing 3-1. He decided to cycle back to his house but was met by the news that Blackpool, inspired by typical wing-wizardry from Matthews and a hat-trick from Mortensen, had turned it around to win 4-3. He had mixed emotions; happy his team had won, but deeply frustrated that he had missed the comeback. It was lovely to hear him recount this story, his boyish enthusiasm shining through. Bobby now lives in Cork in Ireland with his lovely wife Val and he told another football-related story. He was recently coaching some youngsters and he decided he needed to illustrate his teachings with some practical illustration. He took aim and chipped a ball through for the kids, but felt immediate pain in his groin. Val was still giving him loads of grief for this “silliness” but I just had to admire his love of the game. I hope that I am still playing at the age of seventy.

I collected Lord Parky at 10am. To celebrate St. George’s Day, we listened to the light and breezy English pop of The Sundays’ 1997 album “Static and Silence.” I first became a fan of this band way back in 1989 when they brought out the gorgeous “Can’t Be Sure” single. This has some lovely lyrics, laced with humour, and almost Smithsesque in their content.

“Give me a story and give me a bed.
Give me possessions.
Oh love luck and money they go to my head like wildfire.
It’s good to have something to live for you’ll find.
Live for tomorrow.
Live for a job and a perfect behind, high time.
England, my country, the home of the free, such miserable weather.
But England’s as happy as England can be.
Why cry?”

By 12.15pm, the two of us had walked down the North End Road – warm weather, getting warmer – to “Lloyds” at Fulham Broadway and had met up with The Wild One, plus three first-time visitors from across the pond; JR, Dennis and Anna, all from Michigan, all members of the Motor City Blues. JR kindly bought us pints and soon began questioning me on a few Chelsea topics. Beth had warned me that she had a “little gift” for me, but with increasing disbelief, I was swept away with the contents of her Chelsea carrier bag.

I was presented with two magnificent bespoke bounded albums containing all of my various match reports from seasons 2008-2009 and 2009-2010.

Oh boy – I was speechless.

So, a fantastic gift from you to me and I thank you all. I began posting on CIA in 2006 at the time of my trip over to Chicago for the MLS All-Star Game and immediately felt “at home” on CIA. This has always been a two-way street; I love sharing my passion for this wonderful club and, in turn, I get a massive buzz from all of your enthusiasm too.

We toasted each other – “Friendship and Football.”

We spent a nice relaxing time at “Lloyds” before it got too busy. We were joined by Gill and Graeme, who I know get just as much satisfaction out of their new trans-Atlantic friendships as me. Parky and I wolfed down a burger and chips as the American guests flitted around, buying CFCUK fanzines and St. George pin badges.

Another pint.

Then, we moved on to Stamford Bridge. The weather really was heating up now and many fellow fans had decided on shorts. I took a few candid shots of the three Bridge virgins as they rounded the corner and set eyes on the West Stand for the first-ever time. I remember my first sighting in 1974. These are magical moments.

Then, some photos of The King, Peter Osgood, bathed in sunshine, standing proudly outside The West Stand. A lovely time.

Our next port of call was – of course – the hotel bar area where we met up with Bobby and Val Tambling again. Bobby just chatted away to JR, Dennis and Anna as if they had known each other for years; he is a naturally charismatic fellow and a lovely ambassador for our club. Ron Harris then appeared and also gave the American guests some lovely memories with his friendly comments and humorous asides. Of course, these two Chelsea greats (Mister 795 and Mister 202) posed with JR, Dennis and Anna for some photographs.

Another pint.

In the background, the Manchester United vs. Everton game was on a TV, but I was ignoring it in the main. There were a few “oohs” and “ahhs” but the game was scoreless. Then, Parky uttered the horrible words “they’ve scored” and the jolly pre-match atmosphere changed. I had ironically predicted that “United will probably score in the last five minutes” and I wasn’t too far out. So, that makes our task even more difficult this season but let’s not get too downhearted.

Gill had just bumped into Frank Lampard and was all of a shake. The manager was having his pre-match team talk in an adjacent meeting room and a few players were flitting about. One day I’ll provide a plan of all the rooms, walkways and hidden nooks and crannies of the hotel for you all. The daily pre-match routines do tend to vary a bit each game, though. Frank had even given Gill a quick kiss and I joked with Graeme that I would soon be on the ‘phone to the “News of the World” to report that Frank had a secret rendezvous with a “mystery blonde.”

Gill whooped with laughter.

Next, the neat silver hair of Carlo Ancelotti appeared at a window – he was on the ‘phone – and Anna was convinced that he had waved at her.

A quiet respectful chorus of “Carlo” echoed around the bar area.

It was now 2.45pm and time was moving on. We all decamped up to The Goose, a fifteen minute walk away. Andy Wray and his wife were on their way and soon joined us. The Goose was absolutely rammed and, with the heat and the cigarette smoke in the beer garden, not as enjoyable as on other days. There was simply nowhere to move. I was now on the Cokes and had a slight headache, too; drat. Not only were my usual mates standing in groups, but there was a 15 strong group from Herr Grupenfuhrer Neat’s New York Blues to attend to. Amidst all of this, Beth was chatting to Andy, JR, Anna and Dennis and I am sure they were having a blast. I quickly showed a few of the lads the album from last season and they were suitably impressed. Not only are the match reports included, but the album contained many of my photographs, too. Of course, a lot of my mates are featured and this was met with much merriment and Mickey-taking.

I asked Walnuts, who lives in Brighton, if the rumours were correct about us opening up Brighton’s new stadium at Falmer were correct. He wasn’t sure, but promised to keep me informed.

I disappeared off for twenty minutes to take the albums back to the car, grab a headache tablet and I had a little moment to myself amongst the mad activity of the afternoon. It had been a lovely day thus far, but there was a fear that the match would be a massive ant-climax.

How wrong could I be?

By the time I had met up with His Lordship back at The Goose, there spots of rain in the air. I could hardly believe this; English weather…maybe The Sundays were correct! Parky had heard rumours that West Ham had launched an attack on The Malster and I hoped that nobody was hurt; specifically, our CIA friends who were planning to call in and see the Fancast team. As we walked down the North End Road, we heard unfamiliar songs and we soon spotted a line of OB guarding around forty West Ham fans standing on the pavement outside The C0ck and Hen. As far as I could see, none were wearing colours. They were youngsters, maybe the latest incarnation of their “Under Fives” and I envisaged that they may well have been on the Thames boat which had transported a hundred or so West Ham fans from the East End. I guess they had split up into ones and twos and then mustered enough in the pub to create a scene. Anyway, they were full of bravado. I just rolled my eyes at one song which they were singing –

“Chelsea’s a 5hit-hole, I wanna go home.”

West Ham aren’t known for their irony, so I just cringed at this.

Urbane, cosmopolitan, expensive, sophisticated SW6 versus raggedy-arsed Gor Blimey Land.

Simply no contest.

I could tell Parky was itching to hang around and see what developed, but I moved him on. Outside the old tube station, a West Ham fan – foolishly wearing a replica shirt – was obstructed by an indignant Chelsea fan and bumped off him. I only saw two West Ham fans wearing colours the entire day; old habits die hard. Mind you, when we go East, Chelsea never wear colours. Too risky. At the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, a St. George’s flag was flying proudly atop the flagpole.

As we lined up the turnstiles to the MHU, the clouds darkened and the rain increased. Everyone was in short-sleeved shirts and even flip-flops.

Inside with five minutes to go; phew. I noted that quite a few West Ham had not yet made it in; maybe they had indeed decided to go home, back east to the land of pie and mash, discount supermarkets, used-car salesmen, fake designer wear and old-fashioned violence to anyone outside of the “manor.”

I kept an eye out for the steward who had troubled me against Birmingham City with his warnings about using my camera. I planned a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse with him; I had packed a compact camera too.

The teams – Ivanovic for Ferreira, but thankfully no Scott Parker for them.

Neil Barnett had announced that Scott Parker had won the Writers’ Player of the Year award and this was warmly applauded by the Chelsea supporters. I can’t imagine the bitter West Ham fans doing likewise.

Ah – the John Terry & Wayne Bridge Non-Handshake Act Two.

I didn’t agree with the booing of Wayne Bridge all afternoon, but there you go.

At kick-off, all of the itinerant wastrels from the East were inside and making quite a din. There was every colour under the sun on show except much claret and light blue.

We began strongly in the first twenty minutes. After just two minutes, Florent Malouda was played in and only had Robert Green to beat. His weak shot was straight at the much-maligned ‘keeper. With the rain now falling heavily, a lot of spectators in the front rows of the West Stand scarpered to watch, presumably, on TVs in the stand. Wimps!

Kalou wasted a good chance when clear and then Ba forced a save from Petr Cech on 23 minutes. This was West Ham’s first effort on goal, but they then enjoyed a period of possession. Soon after, a break and despite a desperate run from Ashley Cole to stop the cross, the ball was played in and Petr Cech nimbly pushed the resulting header around the post.

On 27 minutes, Didier did well to create space and he advanced down the right, but selfishly blasted over. This was met with groans from the frustrated home crowd.

On 28 minutes, the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard rumbled around The Bridge. The rain was falling relentlessly and the early evening atmosphere was quite strange. There was a weird feeling. An intense, heavy, gloom hung around. Meanwhile, the pastel coloured away fans were singing away and I don’t think Chelsea were retaliating with the required amount of volume and venom. I was hoping that the American guests weren’t disappointed.

After 31 minutes, a West Ham corner was flighted in and after a kick and a lunge, Petr Cech fell on the ball just before it crossed the line. The natives were restless, especially when a wild shot from Branislav Ivanovic careered off for a throw. Then, Kalou lost possession with a very loose ball and we were very lucky not to concede a goal; a courageous block from David Luiz saved us.

Then, salvation. We attacked down the left on 44 minutes and a delightful ball from Didier Drogba was played between some defenders to Ashley Cole (“f***ing ball of the season” I said to Walnuts) and our left-back played the ball across the West Ham goalmouth. Before I could blink, the ball fell to none other than a previously subdued Frank Lampard and he joyously slammed the ball in to the roof of the net.

We hollered our joy and I saw Frank reel away, leaping in front of 3,000 enemies. It was a lovely moment. I jumped down and looked at Alan.

Alan : “They’ull ave ta cam at us naaaa.”
Chris : “Cum on moi little doimonds.”

At half-time, two treats. Chelsea boxer Darren Barker was introduced to the crowd by Neil Barnett just as a massive fork of lighting lit up the sky just behind the towering East stand. Then, Bobby Tambling was on the pitch, initially carrying a massive blue umbrella to fend off the rain. However, the wind took it and it reversed itself. After a couple of attempts to right it, Tambling said “f it” and threw it to one side. As he strode around the pitch with Neil Barnett, he got absolutely drenched. I bet Ron Harris was grinning up in the executive area.

After the break, more Chelsea possession. A lovely Drogba cross found Malouda who cutely set up Kalou. In space, he took his time but drilled the ball well wide.

On 54 minutes, Michael Essien pulled up and was soon replaced with Yossi Benayoun. After 60 minutes, a great Drogba free-kick was played with pace into the danger area, but evaded all of our lunging bodies. Two minutes after, an almost identical ball from Didier was played in to Frank Lampard but he miraculously couldn’t get the desired touch.

The chances were coming thick and fast now. A thunderous shot by Frank from way out was parried by Green and Malouda slammed the loose ball wide.

“Chim, chimeny, chim, chimeny, chim, chim, cheroo – We hate those ba5tards in claret and blue.”

On 68 minutes, David Luiz gathered the ball 25yards out and steadied himself. He unleashed a venomous dipper which rocked the bar.

At the other end, an equally vicious blast from Ba was well stopped by Petr Cech, who then did well to gather the follow up.

On 69 minutes, Nicolas Anelka came on for Kalou.

Robbie Keane (oh, how we all love him at Chelsea) came on for the injured Noble and was soon sent in with only our Great Dane to beat. Unlike on so many previous occasions, the Irish fecker shot wide and we were spared the sight of his pathetic summersault.

On 77 minutes, Fernando Torres came on for the revitalized Drogba and we shouted his name. He was industrious for seven minutes, full of movement and guile. He soon selflessly set up Anelka but his shot was blasted straight at Gabbidon.

Then, it happened.

It is with regret that I did not have my camera to capture this, but here are my memories. A perfectly paced ball by Anelka was played centrally into space for an onrushing Torres to run on to. The offside trap had been breached.

We stood up. We gulped. We hoped.

Just as he was about to dispatch the ball with his right foot, the ball held up in a Stamford Bridge puddle and we immediately groaned all of those usual Torres thoughts. Unperturbed, Torres kept his footing, moved the ball onto his left foot and – off balance – calmly swept the ball into the net. I think this slight pause caused by that puddle heightened the drama and intensified our emotions.

Stamford Bridge went into orbit. The noise was thunderous. Delirium. Absolute delirium.

I glanced down and, amid screams, I reached down for my camera, resting atop my bag. I felt my brain doing something very strange – it felt like it was about to explode with joy. This goal obviously meant a lot. Too much, maybe. At that moment in time, Torres’ goal seemed like the most important goal I would ever witness.

I then blacked out momentarily and fell back on my haunches. For a split second – I guess – I was gone. I tried to jump up, but my legs were like jelly. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I clambered to my feet and – so embarrassed…I thought everyone must be looking at me – I steadied myself and unscrewed by camera lens cover.

Snap – an unsurprisingly blurred shot of Torres and team mates on their feet in the far corner. I think I had missed the massive pile of bodies.

Wow. That has never happened to me before. I have felt very light-headed at moments of joy (Gallas against Spurs in 2006, for example) but I’ve never blacked out before.

As I explained to Alan and Walnuts about what had just happened to me, The Bridge was rocking and the noise didn’t let up.

West Ham were silent.

The rest of the game was a massive blur. Just time for a diving JT chest pass (a first?) and then, on 90 minutes, the coup de grace.

A pass into space from our boy Fernando and Malouda slammed the ball in. Camera at the ready I took ten photographs of the joy amongst our players as Malouda welcomed a smiling Torres to join him. Both were mobbed by the rest of the team and the day was complete.

What an amazing end to the game. I can only imagine what was going through the minds of Anna, Dennis and JR. On my first ever visit to Yankee stadium, my hero Don Mattingly hit his 100th home run (on film!) and I was a very happy man.

But this…this was something else!

Out through the joyous crowds, past the So Bar, onto Vanston Place, we were all singing…it didn’t take long for a new song to be borne.

“Fernando Torres – He sent West Ham down.”

I soon caught up with His Lordship as we sauntered back to the car. We did well and left Chelsea Town at 8pm.

A text from JR : “Does it get any better?”

As we drove past Windsor Castle on the M4, I glimpsed at the famous round tower and spotted a St. George’s flag atop its flagpole. We stopped at Reading for a little indulgence… coffees and a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Parky did a lucky dip of my CDs and pulled out “Soft Cell.” He then fell asleep and I drove on, heading west, not thinking about the title, just thinking of being Chelsea.

However, just two miles from Parky Towers, there was a rumble and I knew that I had a flat tire. We pulled over and, in the darkness of a Wiltshire night, I quickly changed the wheel. It had been a blow out and I thanked the lucky stars I was only doing thirty miles per hour. This delayed my return home; after dropping Parky home, I reached my house at 10.50pm. I only had to wait a minute to see Fernando Torres’ goal on “Match of the Day” and I just thought –

“Perfect timing.”

We’re still in with a shout of the title, you know. It’s a long shot of course, but please prepare yourselves for yet more drama next weekend when we play Tottenham at home.

Love it.

Tales From The Tribal Gathering

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 13 March 2010.

Although this was a fine day out in Chelsealand, the spectre of Jose Mourinho and his Internazionale team visiting us was never far away. It was as if I was thinking about two games at once throughout the entire day.

For a change, my good mate Glenn was driving, allowing me to relax a bit. Because I have been doing a lot of the driving of late, this came as a welcome break for me. Glenn has a VW van and we made good progress in the morning, heading up the M4, with me in the front with Glenn and Lord Parky bouncing around in the back. We hoped that if Parky was seated in the back, alone, he might give us a break from his incessant jabber.

Alas not.

I texted a few of the main protagonists from North America, who would be meeting up at various stages of the day. It would be a big day for a few visitors…more of all that later.

Glenn screeched around the streets of Hammersmith and was soon parked-up at about 10.30am. We park up near the Queens Club – just a few minutes from The Goose – and we noted that the other Frome car, containing Frankie Two Times and Big Dave, was parking a few yards away. Frank commented that Glenn had cut him up coming around the Hammersmith roundabout.

Some things will never change.

Back into the usual match-day routine…straight into the café, soon to be joined by San Francisco Bob, the first of the many CIAers to join us. Bob had been in Rome for a few days and was wearing his latest purchase, a nice dark blue Paul & Shark number. I left Bob in the capable hands of the Frome Four as I had to zip down to HQ to meet Danielle, over for her first ever game at HQ.

The day was gathering speed.

Kent Blues Gill and Burger then sent me updates. It was going to be a manic old day. I met Danielle outside the megastore and we made a bee-line for the Copthorne Hotel foyer, where I knew Ron Harris would be based for an hour or so. We stayed there for about two hours and it was a lovely time. Danielle had her photo taken with Chopper and was able to meet Peter Bonetti, too. The infamous Autograph King, Mick, was also in our little group and before I knew it, we were joined by Pete, Gary and Dave from LA and SF. Next to arrive was Jens, Scott, Tim and Lalo, the Texas contingent. Ex-player David Lee – “Rodders” – was having a drink in the bar, too. One of the highlights of this particular part of the day was Ron Harris winding up Texas Tim by saying the alarm will go off in the hotel if Tim attempted to leave without paying Mick for his match ticket. A lovely memory for Tim to take away with him.

At about 12.30pm, Mick was able to prep Danielle to stand in a prime location for the players “walk-through” down by reception. By about 1pm, Danielle had managed to get around 6 players – plus Carlo Ancelotti – to sign her shirt. Frank signed the back – by his name and number – and added a little “X” too. By the time Danielle returned to the foyer, she needed a sit-down to gather her thoughts. To be honest, it was lovely to see her enthusiasm. I spent some time chatting to Lalo, too – and he was bowled over by the days’ events. I supped up my pint and then headed up to The Goose, passing Mark Worrall’s stall, where copies of “CFCUK” were purchased.

Danielle, Tim and Lalo were going to experience the packed Goose with me, leaving Jens and Scott in the hotel. As I neared the pub, I passed Burger heading down to get his tickets. Into the pub and it was absolutely rammed. I meet Julie, chatting with Jon and Lee, then popped out to the beer garden to see Dutch Mick chatting with Bluemick, mates from Chicago in 2006. Who else? Kent Blues Gill and Graeme were in the thick of it and my usual mates were clustered around too. I gulped down two pints and was able to relax a bit. I had a nice chat with Lalo about baseball, believe it or not. He was loving the pre-match routines that us UK-based fans take for granted. Wes – another Austin Blue – was in The Goose, too. Friends were being reunited everywhere I looked.

Good times.

Into the stadium and let battle commence.

Of course, West Ham were very poor, so I don’t think we need to write too much into the score. It was a comfortable performance. John Terry was the subject of some typically offensive chanting from the West Ham fans, but within five seconds, the ball was played out to Malouda and his lovely cross was headed firmly in by Alex.

The first-half was a little similar to the Manchester City game. It was all Chelsea in the first 25 minutes, but we then allowed the returning Scott Parker the space to let fly from 25 yards. I said “goal” as soon as it left him.

1-1…damn it.

We had more pressure before the break, with Malouda shining, but no more goals. At half-time, I was positive we would push on, but the mood around me wasn’t so upbeat. I met up with San Francisco Pete, who has a seat in the very back row of the MHU, and we had our usual half-time moan and groan, albeit tongue-in-cheek. Even when it’s bad, it isn’t that bad.

I thought both sets of fans were pretty quiet. Yet again, I didn’t hear a peep from either of the side stands.

A fantastic run from midfield by John Terry was wildly cheered by everyone, and the ball broke to Florent Malouda down below me. I snapped his cross with my camera and it was headed in by Drogba. Didier gathered the ball and ran towards JT, the joy there for all to see. Malouda joined the celebrations and blew a kiss to the Matthew Harding.

Malouda was on fire, in fact. When he gathered the ball outside the box, he took a touch in order to bring the ball under control. This brought a few grumbles of discontent from the seats behind me, but I knew instinctively that he needed that extra touch. A shimmy later and he swept it in. The crowd roared. Just like last spring, our wide Frenchmen is now finding the best form of the season. Long may it continue.

Carlton Cole was widely applauded when he came on as a substitute.

Likewise, when Malouda was substituted, the whole ground clapped him off and it was a joy to see this. As Alan commented, like a lot of wide players, Malouda is such a confidence player and this reception would have touched him. Let’s hope he is warmed by it and can go on to produce another top class performance against Inter.

In the last minute, the ball was swept in by Drogba after a Lampard shot was fumbled by Green. This mirrored the 4-1 win against the same opposition back in 2006…Burger’s first ever game at HQ, in fact. The plus points for me were Malouda’s best ever game for us and a solid performance from the defence. I thought Frank and Ballack were pretty quiet. Maybe they were saving themselves…

We all met up outside the hotel and marched off to Earls Court where post-game activities were planned. First though, a couple of drinks in the Finborough Arms and a chance to chat with Burger, Julie and Danielle about the game we had just witnessed. Danielle loved the noise levels, but I warned her that on Tuesday the volume would be cranked up several notches.

I had booked the downstairs room at “Dall Artista” on the Brompton Road and I think I can say that everyone present had an enjoyable time.

Lacoste Watch

Burger – navy blue

We got stuck into some cold Peronis, then ordered some choice Italian fare. Salvo – as ever – was the convivial host and he was aided by his side-kick waiter from “And Leicester.” As the evening wore on, the fourteen of us ( NY Mike, Burger, Mrs Burger, Tim, Danielle, Wes, Jens, Scott, Lalo, Lord Parky, Mr and Mrs San Francisco Bob, Glenn and myself ) joined in with some choice CFC songs, then had a few toasts to our beloved club.

A few quotes from the evening –

“Parky – behave yourself!” – Chris.

“Today, I lost my Chelsea Virginity” – Lalo.

“This has been better than my Prom Night” – Danielle.

“Today was all about the friendships, but Tuesday will be about the game” – Julie.

“The famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see The Pope” – Burger.

“Amoretto, Chelsea Amoretto” – Mike, Burger, Bob and Chris.

“Damn it – Arsenal have won 2-1” – Chris.

“Carefree” – all fourteen of us.

At around 9pm, Salvo waltzed down the stairs carrying fourteen glasses of champagne, on the house. He was smiling, in that lovely way of his.

We toasted each other and then said our goodbyes out in the cold of Brompton Road. All of the alcohol – Peronis, a Sambuca, a Limocello and an Amoretto -were having a grave effect on me. I slept all of the way home.

Meanwhile, somewhere, in Italy, Jose Mourinho was making plans for Tuesday…

Tales From The Game Of Four Penalties

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2009.

As we stumble towards the half-point in the season, what an amazing weekend.

What with both Liverpool and then Manchester United losing on Saturday, the Sunday game at West Ham was set up perfectly. A Chelsea win would solidify our lead at the top but also confine West Ham to bottom place. Too good to be true, eh?

My first concern as I awoke on Sunday morning was getting out of my Somerset village. I set off, rather gingerly, at 9am and made it over to collect Lord Parky at 9.40am The first hour was spent in a snow-dusted landscape, as I drove east. The Devizes duck pond was completely frozen. The swans and ducks must have been confused. As we headed through Savernake Forest, we encountered many “picture postcard” scenes. The sky above was clear and it was a truly gorgeous morning. It was a pleasure to be alive. We spoke about the madness of Mark Hughes losing his job at City. What a crazy decision. At a garage en route, I refuelled and we had to laugh at West Ham Dad and West Ham Kid who were buying some junk food for the trip to London. Dad was unshaven, tattooed and wearing some scabby jeans. Kid was dopey. Stereotypes for us all to admire.

I spoke to Parky about a book I had just purchased – “Mad For It” by Andy Mitten. This details various derby matches all over the world, mainly from a fan’s perspective, and looks to be a great read. He starts with Liverpool vs. Manchester United, but the book also encompasses a wide range of matches from Barca vs. Real, Boca Juniors vs. River Plate to Wolves vs. West Brom. It made me think about our rivals…and the fact that our natural “derby” against Fulham is hardly passionate, in the way that others are. For a derby to be genuine, the animosity has to go both ways. I’m sorry, but I can’t hate Fulham. Of course, in London, the biggest derby is the Arsenal vs. Spurs encounter. West Ham might say that their “derby” is Millwall, but this game is so infrequent as to be unworthy of the name. Where does that leave Chelsea? To be honest, I don’t really know. I still think our biggest London game is Spurs, even though they dislike Arsenal much much more.

Back in the early ‘eighties, Chelsea and West Ham were mired in division two and it felt like West Ham were suddenly our natural rivals, both sub Arsenal and Spurs, but with potential to be much bigger. In the past ten years, we have diverged!

Of course, in London we are spoilt for choice for geographical rivals. These rivals change through time, but I remember that in the 1988-89 season ( and this may surprise a few ) that our London league rival was only Crystal Palace. Believe it or not, in that one season, when Chelsea were in the second division, we played second best to seven other London teams ( Arsenal, Tottenham, West Ham, QPR, Wimbledon, Charlton and Millwall ) who were in the top division. Only twenty years ago, but we were the eighth best team in London.

How times change. And thank heavens they do.

At Reading services, we stopped for coffees and I heard from Kevin ( “Gromit” ) who was heading down to East London from Wolverhampton. He was running late, but we would meet up somewhere. We continued on, reaching London at 12.45pm. Rather than head over to meet the boys in Barking, Parky and myself dropped into The Goose for a burger and a pint. Just the business. We walked to West Brompton and boarded the district line train. Some 26 stops later, we arrived at a freezing Barking station at about 2.30pm. We joined up with Alan, Daryl, Gary and Whitey in The Spotted Dog, having just missed Cath and Dog. Just time for one pint and a few laughs…we weren’t wearing colours, so nobody sussed we were “the enemy.”

We took the five minute train journey back west to Upton Park, to be met outside by Walnuts, who had endured a horrendous train trip up from Brighton.

We quickly walked through the tight terraced streets, sliding on the ice, and were soon inside the packed away end.

I was in row H, just beyond the goal with a great view of the game. I noted the thin sliver of a crescent moon way up above the main stand. We stood the entire game. I spotted many empty seats in the top corners of both the home end and the main stand. In fact, the gate was a full two thousand below capacity…for a London “derby” – pathetic.

We began brightly but then seemed to lose momentum and West Ham got into the game, with ex-Chelsea midfielder Scott Parker increasingly involved. I was warned by a steward not to use my camera and Gary was also having a battle of wills with another steward about something or other. It was getting spiky and the steward was itching to get him nicked. Two Frank Lampard shots from distance and one from John Terry were our only chances of note. Kalou offered no threat at all.

In one notable moment, JT had to head clear as Cech remained routed to his line. JT had a word with Petr, while Frank shaped “ball” with his hands and gave him an old-fashioned look as if to say “make sure you bloody come next time.” From the resultant corner, Cech came and punched superbly away. Phew.

Then, a rash challenge from Ashley gifted them with a penalty which was converted.

Here we go again.

Just before the break, about twenty West Ham numpties in The Chicken Run serenaded us with “You’ve Got No History” which must surely go down as one of the most ridiculous songs ever. From West Ham! To be blunt, this song really annoys me anyway – it implies that a club’s “history” is solely dependent upon trophy success, whereas we all know that it’s to do with so much more than that.

Loyalty. Comradeship. Humour. Fraternity.

At the break, we mixed things up with two substitutions. Drogba and Kalou had been poor, but the service from midfield was very scant. To be fair, both Mikel and Sturridge did well in the second period.

With Robert Green but ten yards away, Gary was on form.

“You’d might as well put Hughie Green in goal – your rubbish!”

And he meant that most sincerely.

We got behind the team and they responded with an improved performance – or was it the other way around?

We enjoyed so much more of the ball as the game developed and it was great being able to see the movement and strength of our players from such close quarter. We tied to prise open their defence, but it wasn’t easy. Then, a challenge on Sturridge and we were overjoyed with the referee’s decision.

Frank steadied himself and despatched it.

Get in you beauty. Gary began winding up the steward, but it transpired he wasn’t a West Ham fan.

He was a Liverpool fan – even better! Much laughter.

We then turned around, only to see Frank taking another penalty. We had been oblivious to the re-take and I had to wonder if I was in a Groundhog Day loop.

He scored the retake and we yelled again.

We then turned around, only to see Frank taking another penalty. We had been oblivious to the re-take and I had to wonder if I was in a Groundhog Day loop.

He scored the retake and we yelled again.

This time – it counted!

Drogba narrowly missed from an angle and we sang for a winner. I felt sure we would score again, but despite more pressure, including a disappointing shot from Joe which blazed over, it stayed at 1-1.

Outside the packed away end, the weather was freezing. We marched back to the tube and were soon thawing out on the train. We chatted to three fellow Chelsea fans and we all agreed that this is turning out to be a poor season with United, Liverpool and us fighting to find the form of the recent past. Our form has suffered over the past three weeks, but the form of the other two teams mentioned seems more terminal.

Where will it end? Watch this space.

We dropped into Salvo’s for a warming coffee and I made good time on the M4. I got home at 10.40pm, just in time to switch on the TV and see the move which lead to our thrice-taken penalty. The “foul” on Daniel Sturridge?

Oh boy – we were lucky!

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: West Ham United