Tag Archives: Zigger Zagger

Tales From A Night Of Chelsea Daggers And Zigger Zaggers

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Chelsea vs. Benfica : 30 September 2025.

History.

Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.

This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.

Thus far, four games and four wins.

Players.

The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.

There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.

But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.

There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.

We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.

But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.

Managers.

The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.

At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.

Modern Football – Part One.

My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.

The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.

Modern Football – Part Two.

I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.

Modern Football – Part Three.

Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.

If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.

https://www.change.org/p/stop-music-being-played-after-chelsea-score-at-stamford-bridge

Pre-Match.

Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.

At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.

“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.

There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.

It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.

I was in at 7.45pm.

Teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho

Tyique George

Kick-Off.

Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.

“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.

Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.

Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.

The First-Half.

From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.

I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.

The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.

There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.

After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.

On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.

Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.

I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.

GET IN.

And then my night got worse.

“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.

My heart sank.

I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.

Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.

I hate modern football.

The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?

It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.

On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.

Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.

Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.

The Second-Half.

The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.

Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.

On the hour, two more substitutions.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Joao Pedro for George.

This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.

He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.

“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”

“OI OI OI.”

It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.

I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.

If only, eh?

If fucking only.

After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.

We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.

On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.

Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.

We howled.

It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.

Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.

In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.

For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.

At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.

It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,

Let’s Go Home.

It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.

We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.

Ah well, all roads lead to Frome.

2012

2013

2025

Tales From The North End Road

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Chelsea vs. Preston North End : 6 January 2024.

With the Christmas period over, our first match of 2024 saw us paired in a home FA Cup tie against Preston North End. Our paths do not cross much these days; this only would be our ninth head-to-head since 1963.

I recollected the previous two, both FA Cup ties, from 2002 and 2010. These have been my only sightings of the lilywhites from Lancashire.

On 17 February 2002, we played Preston at Stamford Bridge in the fifth round of the FA Cup. I remembered the visitors going ahead with an early goal – which I happened to capture on film – but my memory was of it being scored by Jon Macken, but it was actually scored by Richard Cresswell. Thankfully, we recovered well and triumphed 3-1 with goals from Eidur Gudjohnsen, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Mikael Forssell. The gate was just 28,133, possibly a result of the club not getting the pricing structure correct back in those days.

On 23 January 2010, on a cold and misty day, Parky and I travelled up to Deepdale and watched us beat the home team 2-0 with goals from Nicolas Anelka and Daniel Sturridge. The gate was 23,119. Before the game, there was time for a quick photograph of the lovely statue of Sir Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, outside the stadium. This statue, nicknamed “The Splash”, is based on the famous photograph taken at Stamford Bridge in 1956 of Finney evading a tackle by Chelsea defender Walter Bennet, and captures the sun hitting the water as it is splashing up from a water-sodden pitch. In 2010, the National Football Museum was based at Deepdale, but it has since moved to Manchester. I remember being impressed by Deepdale, a neat and clean modern stadium. However, there is nothing much left of note in Preston these days, except perhaps its bus station, a brutalist gem.

There are a few other Preston “moments” in Chelsea’s history and social history.

During the FA Cup run of 1968/69, we drew 0-0 at Deepdale and reconvened at Stamford Bridge on the following Wednesday. We were 2-0 up in front of 44,000 but after seventy-five minutes the floodlights failed. Lo and behold, the game was replayed on the following Monday when 36,000 showed up to see us win 2-1.

An episode of “Minder” was filmed at Stamford Bridge on the afternoon of 20 September 1980 during our game against Preston. The segment shows actor Denis Waterman watching at the bottom of The Shed terrace with some friends interspersed with some actual game footage, including a great little cameo by Mike Fillery, before he walks along the gangway at the back of The Benches.

On 28 February 1981, Chelsea fan Gary Lee was tragically killed after being chased, with some friends, by locals before our away game at Preston when he slipped and fell from a multi-story car park. At the game in 2010, supporters close to where I watched the game raised a banner in his memory. His mother, the well-loved Breda, was always on the Chelsea Specials. I remember seeing her around Stamford Bridge and at our away games on many occasions.

    Gary Lee RIP

I dropped my fellow travellers at “The Eight Bells” and at Stamford Bridge and I parked up just off Lillee Road at about 11.15am. I had a little time to kill. I would eventually meet up with the lads in the pub, but wanted a bite to eat. Lillee Road is the site of the 1873 FA Cup Final, just as it nears West Brompton tube station.

As I started walking down the North End Road, I spotted that the “Norbros” pizzeria next to “The Goose” had been re-opened as “Koka” and so as it was lunchtime I popped in for some food. Midway through my pizza I spotted Alan walk past, no doubt on his way up to “The Oak” further along the North End Road. In an instant, I decided to join him for a drink and the title of this “Tales” was immediately decided upon.

I walked north, past “The Elm” which looked like it was being refurbished. Just as I was about to pop my head inside inside “The Old Oak”, I saw a Chelsea face pass by. He was heading a hundred yards further north to “The Clarence”. These little run of pubs are decidedly old school. No tourists make it up to these parts, away from the match day buzz and shiny attractions around Stamford bridge. Opposite “The Old Oak” is the site of “The Seven Stars”, a lovely old art deco pub that we popped into once or twice back in the mid-‘nineties, once after the 1997 FA Cup parade at Fulham Broadway. It is now flats but the façade has remained. I wondered if any North End supporters would be drinking anywhere along the North End Road. Maybe up at “The Famous Three Kings”, where we used to drink a few years back? I remembered some Sheffield Wednesday fans in there in 2019.

Alan and Gal were inside “The Old Oak” and I joined them for a while. I hadn’t visited this particular pub since early 2019/20. My friendship with Alan goes back to 1984. My friendship with Gary goes back to around 1988.

I then did myself proud. Rather than take the tube or bus, I walked the 1.6 miles from “The Old Oak” to “The Eight Bells” and got some steps in. It is pretty much a classic match day walk, deep in the heart of Fulham; down the North End Road, onto Fulham Road, onto Fulham High Street. I spotted a family of PNE fans opposite “The Temperance” but I was surprised that neither “The Temperance” nor “The King’s Arms” was full of away fans. Where the bloody hell were they? With six thousand of them in town, they couldn’t all be drinking at Earl’s Court surely?

When I had set off from “The Oak”, at 2.25pm, I texted PD to say that I would be about thirty-five minutes. At 3pm exactly, I walked into “The Eight Bells.”

I work in logistics.

It was a rather shortened drink-up in there. The pub was quiet. Still no away fans anywhere. With the tubes knackered, we caught a bus to Fulham Broadway.

As expected, Preston had the entire Shed End, some six-thousand strong. Again, I had swapped out with Parky to allow him to sit next to PD and Alan. I took up my “Cup” position in the MHU.

The team?

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Colwill – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Broja

So, a full start for Alfie, soon becoming a Chelsea cult-hero.

The usual darkened arena, lights flashing, flames.

Once normal lighting had been resumed, there was a moment of reflection on the one-year anniversary of the passing of Gianluca Vialli. A banner was passed below in the MHL. This struck me as being a “first”. I do not recollect us acknowledging anniversaries of the passing of past players ever before. I think this exemplifies how much the great man was truly adored in SW6. Well done Chelsea.

                                                                Gianluca Vialli RIP

At kick-off, there was a ridiculous “shift” from Preston. Four players were lined-up on the half-way line between the centre circle and the East Stand touchline. Here was a variance on the way to start a match. I liked that. A deviation. Something out of the ordinary. One of the hideous buzzwords in popular football parlance these days is “overload” but here was a fine example of it. The ball was played back to Freddie Woodman, the ‘keeper, who pumped into the air. Chelsea won the first header and the resulting second ball.

Oh well. Next time Preston.

The first-half was shite, eh?

I am not going to waste too much time writing about it.

As expected, the six thousand in The Shed were suitably energised and full of noise.

“Jump around if you hate Blackpool.”

Ah yes, the rivalries in Lancashire are alive and kicking; Blackburn and Burnley, Preston and Blackpool, lovely.

“PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE, PNE – PNE, PNE PNE – PNE – PNE!”

Ah, good old Paeonia lactiflora.

Perhaps we should have replied with a song about Apium graveolens.

Our first attempt on goal came after fifteen minutes. Then the visitors had a dig at our goal. But this was lukewarm stuff. On twenty minutes, Raheem Sterling unleashed a stinger at Woodman.

I was sat next to strangers, and both were ridiculously quiet. I found myself commentating at times in the way that many football fans do.

“Second ball!”

“Don’t let it drop.”

“Into them, Chels,”

I felt a bit odd. I needed to engage with someone. Thankfully John and his son were sat right behind me, so I was grateful for an outlet.

I could not but help notice that Alfie was wearing black boots. It seemed like he was trying to “out JT” John Terry.

A beautiful ball from Enzo was lofted into space but Cole Palmer was quickly closed down by the Preston ‘keeper and the ball bounced wide. This remained virtually the sole moment of unscripted innovation from the whole team in that turgid first-half.

There was angled shot by a Preston attacker, but easily saved by Djordje Petrovic.

The half-hour was reached and it was so dull. I was getting so perplexed with the continued lack of movement from those in advanced positions. Armando Broja, like Nicolas Jackson, needs to move their markers more often. Everywhere I looked, we had players who were ball-watching, mesmerized into a state of inertia. There were hardly any runners looking to exploit space.

We would have been no match for Tony Hancock’s mother’s gravy which “at least moved about.”

Palmer was a meagre plus point. Enzo showed a very occasional hint that he might be able to unlock things, but this was a terrible game. As the end of the first-half approached, even the away fans had almost given up on it, their noise decreasing with each passing minute. There were even a few muted boos as the referee signalled the end of the first forty-five minutes. I was mentally preparing for two more days off work to attend the replay at Deepdale in ten days’ time.

At the start of the half-time break, just before I trotted off to turn my bike around, I joked with John that I was leaving my camera at my seat so I would be forced to return for the second-half.

Chelsea attacked us in the Matthew Harding in the second-half. Early on, a lovely ball from Enzo was dropped towards Palmer but the ball fell short and he could not get a touch as it bounced above his leap.

A Moises Caicedo error allowed a Preston attack but the effort from Alan Browne was always curing over.

Throughout the game, the away team chose the currently out-of-favour style of goal kicks; all players huddled either side of the half-way line and a boot up field from the ‘keeper.

Just after a booming shout of “Fuck The Tories” from the away supporters, Malo Gusto sent over a pacey cross down below me. A leap from Broja, a flick, and the ball ripped into the goal.

Oh how we love the sight of footballs nestling against the white mesh of goal nets.

The crowd was now alive at last.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

CFC 1 PNE 0.

GET IN.

In The Sleepy Hollow, Alan sent me a text that I soon reciprocated.

You know how it goes.

Broja charged down a poor clearance but could not convert. Soon after, almost a copy of the first goal. A great cross from Mudryk, another leap from Broja, but the ball scraped the bar this time.

Ooooh.

Some substitutions on sixty-one minutes.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Noni Madueke for Mydruk.

Silva slotted alongside Disasi, Colwill moved to left-back, Gusto moved to right-back.

On sixty-six minutes, a Palmer corner kick from my left and our right zipped towards the near post. Silva rose and headed it convincingly past Woodman.

CFC 2 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught Silva’s celebrations on film, if not the goal. He was certainly pumped full of passion. He roared. I spotted him place a clenched fist beneath his shirt to signify his heart.

An iconic image.

Shortly after, John and I were completely bemused and befuddled as to why VAR had been consulted.

The. Goal. Came. Direct. From. A. Corner.

VAR – do fuck off.

An air horn had been surreptitiously smuggled into the East Lower and every time that it sounded, I could not help but notice the predominantly young voices that responded “CHELSEA!”

A very odd sensation. It sounded like every single voice had yet to brake; a choir of pre-pubescent young’uns. I looked around. There were, indeed, many more families with kids in attendance than for normal league games.

Three minutes later, Palmer was fouled centrally and Sterling took aim. I caught his approach and strike on film. The ball spun and dipped over the wall. I could hardly believe it had beaten everyone.

Another roar.

CFC 3 PNE 0.

GET IN.

I caught his run and leap too.

Three goals in just ten minutes. And the floodlights stayed on.

Broja came close again, but an effort was cleared off the line.

On seventy-six minutes, more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Palmer.

Deivid Washington for Broja.

There were shots on goal from Gusto and Gallagher.

On eighty-eight minutes, a ridiculous scramble inside the Preston box, but the ball eventually presented itself for Enzo to prod home.

We celebrated but we soon saw a flag for offside. To be fair, it looked offside. Oh well. Then, the elongated pain of VAR. The players all tracked back to the half-way line. The wait seemed to go too long. Maybe ninety seconds? Ridiculous.

The sign from the referee : goal.

I did not celebrate.

CFC 4 PNE 0.

I hate VAR.

A very late substitution.

Michael Golding for Enzo.

The substitute almost prodded home a debut goal. There was still time for a rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cathy down below the lads in The Sleepy Hollow, a merry dance into the box by Madueke but a blocked shot and an effort from Sterling that zipped wide.

It finished 4-0.

I am not sure what Mauricio Pochettino had dropped into the players’ cocoa at half-time but it certainly worked.

We made our way home and into the next round. Who do I fancy in Round Four?

An away game at any of these please –

Coventry City

Ipswich Town

Maidstone United

Newport County or Eastleigh

Plymouth Argyle

Sheffield Wednesday

Wrexham

Now that we are not actively involved in the league’s top placings nor in European competitions, the two domestic cup competitions really are the focus of our attention this season.

Next up, more days off work and another cup tie.

Middlesbrough away, Tuesday night, a League Cup semi-final, a Chicken Parmo,I can’t wait.

See you there.

2002.

2010.

THE NORTH END ROAD.

2024 PART ONE.

MYKHAILO MUDRYK.

THIAGO SILVA.

RAHEEM STERLING.

2024 PART TWO.

Tales From An American Away Day

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MLS All-Stars vs. Chelsea : 25 July 2012.

It was game day in Philadelphia.

The Chelsea faithful had traveled down by buses, trains and automobiles from New York and were awaiting the third game of the US 2012 Tour. After the rather average performance by the team against Paris St. Germain, we were all hoping for a better showing against the MLS team in the All-Star game in nearby Chester, a small town to the south, which plays host to the Philadelphia Union team. All of us were adamant that the patchy support at Yankee Stadium would be trumped by some loud and loyal singing from the cramped corner segment of PPL Park, too. In this scenario, less would definitely be more. There would be more passionate fans in a tighter area. It just had to be a winner. It was a theme that resounded throughout meetings with fellow fans in Philly.

However, NYC was still on my mind; my troubled mind. Personally, I was still trying to get to grips with what I had witnessed in NYC. I had seen Chelsea play in Yankee Stadium and yet I was somewhat unsure of the whole experience. To be truthful – and I always knew this – I was still missing old Yankee Stadium. Sure, the record books will show that Chelsea played at the shining new edifice in the South Bronx, but deep down I was struggling to rationalise the reasons why I felt it was so odd to be a spectator in the new place.

I guess the facts speak for themselves. Between May 1990 and June 2008, I had seen 23 Yankee games in old Yankee stadium. Those memories will never be erased. The Mattingly home run in my first-ever game, a couple of magnificent wins against Boston, the first ever Yankees vs. Mets series in 1997, a David Cone master class, a Jorge Posada grand slam…Paul O’Neil, Wade Boggs, Bernie Williams, Tino Martinez…Derek Jeter…Mariano Rivera.

I am so grateful that I chose the Yankees as my team because I truly felt at home in the tight passageways beneath the towering upper deck of that historic ballpark on River Avenue. The place will always be with me. I guess it was typical New York; grimy, claustrophic, rowdy, monumental.

The new stadium just doesn’t thrill me in the same way.

So, there was all that floating around inside my addled head. For a day or so, I was also rueing the fact that I never really had the chance to say a proper farewell to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. The plan was for them to meet us down at Legends after the game, but they got caught behind some horrendous traffic and so decided to head up to Roma’s brother’s house in Massachusetts instead as time was moving on. There would be no hugs for them all. It left me a little sad.

However, after the adrenalin-filled action of NYC, Philadelphia was proving to be much more relaxing. The four of us were certainly enjoying our fantastic apartment right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway. From our balcony, we could see the Rocky Steps to our left and the City Hall to our right. The apartment was so big that we had to text each other to communicate. The bedroom had a different zip code to the kitchen. The rooftop pool was a fantastic extra. Philadelphia was superb.

This was my fifth visit to the City of Brotherly Love and I joked that it was “typical Chelsea” that I keep getting pulled back to the same cities in the US as the team does during European competitions; how many times have we visited Porto, Valencia, Rome and Marseille?

Although I would class NYC as my favourite US city, Philly is rapidly becoming a bit of an obsession. I mentioned to a few Chelsea fans that my great great grandparents lived in the city in the middle of the nineteenth century – after getting shipwrecked off the coast of Newfoundland – before returning back to England. My great grandmother was born in England, but at least one of her siblings was born in America. My personal knowledge of this slice of my past is rather sketchy, but my mother always wanted to visit Philadelphia on the back of this story. So, in 2010, my mother and I spent a very memorable week in the city. It is a week I will never forget. On several occasions, I trembled when I realised that Benjamin and Barbara White may have walked the same steps in the 1850’s.

In 2012, Philly was treating me well.

On the Monday, Captain Jack had taken a half-day off work to show a few of us around his adopted city; it was a marvellous walk through a few blocks of the historic centre, ending up with a cheese steak at the legendary “Jim’s” on South Street. This was followed by an equally wonderful visit to see the Phillies defeat Milwaukee 7-6. The others were feeling tired and headed home when the home team were 6-3 down, but I stayed the course and was rewarded with four runs in the bottom of the ninth. This was my fourth Philly game in the city and although the Yanks are my team, I did let my mind wander a little and wonder if I should really have chosen the red of Philly over the navy of the Bronx in lieu of my own personal history.

Nah, what am I thinking?

Everyone knows that Randolph Axon once lived in a little tenement off Grand Concourse in the Bronx in the first few years of the last century.

“I hadda come back to England see. Da police were on my tail and I hadda run.”

Good old uncle Randolph.

On the Tuesday – a really lazy day – we were lucky enough to meet some of the players as they boarded the coach for a practice session outside the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, overlooking the City Hall.

We were memorably tipped-off about the players’ hotel on the Monday when we were returning to our hotel. A cab slowed down and none other than Andy Wray shouted over to us. His first words were not about Chelsea, though. Typical Andy; he pointed to a nearby restaurant and shouted –

“That place does great food.”

Welcome to Philly!

Our good fortune in meeting the players reminded me so much of my time in Chicago in 2006. I still rate this as my favourite CFC trip to the US, despite our 1-0 defeat and despite it being the only game of the trip. It was, quite simply, a perfect few days in the Windy City. On the very first night, myself, Roma – plus her daughters Vanessa and Jenny – and my mate Chris met virtually all the Chelsea players outside the team hotel, no more than 300 yards from our hotel just off Magnificent Mile.

On this trip, however, I became more integrated with the fans from America. During my two previous trips – 2004 in Pittsburgh, in 2005 in DC and NYC – we mainly kept to ourselves.

In 2006, though, the floodgates opened and I was lucky enough to meet many US-based fans. Since then, my Chelsea life has taken a wonderful – unplanned – route all of its own.

I’m just so grateful.

After spending a few hours in “Tir Na Nog” on the Tuesday evening – nice and easy, meeting a few new Chelsea fans – we retired to the pub which was part of the same building as our apartment. We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxi cab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser.

To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

By the way, the look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers all the time back in England.”

We were still laughing about this incident when we arose from our slumber on the Wednesday. We had no real plans for the day, but I soon received a text from Steve Mantle about walking over to the Rocky Steps with the four official Chelsea banners in order for photographs to be taken.

Now, that sounded like a magnificent idea.

Despite the sun bearing down on us, we assembled at Tir Na Nog and set off.

I had previously run up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 2008 – it is surely the most important thing that anyone must do in Philadelphia – and so I knew what to expect. The steps were perfect for a photograph. I stood at the base and conducted the proceedings. We elicited the assistance of a few willing tourists and I shouted instructions from below.

With everyone in place, I snapped away like a fool, knowing full well that Chelsea would be using some of the photographs in an upcoming magazine or programme. We created a bit of a scene to be honest and I guess it is the nearest I’ll ever get to being part of a flash mob.

We engaged in conversations with a few fellow fans and met a young lad wearing a Frank Lampard shirt who would be taking part in the on-game ceremonies later that day at the game.

In truth, the twenty minutes we spent under the baking sun at the Rocky Steps were one of the highlights of the whole trip.

And, no – I didn’t run to the top of the flights of steps and yell

“Yo Adrian Mutu.”

I changed into my 1989 Chelsea shirt and met up with the Chelsea faithful in Tir Na Nog at just after 5pm. Amongst the mass of blue, I was very pleased to be able to meet Captain Jack’s family; his wife Teri and their three lovely daughters called in to say “hi” and I was able to start the slow but thorough dialogue with Teri which will eventually lead to Captain Jack being allowed across the ocean to see Chelsea play at The Bridge.

In fact, there is a humorous sub story here. Teri once lived in South Kensington for a short amount of time – way back when Chelsea were mere mortals – and has actually stepped foot inside Stamford Bridge.

Come on Teri – let Steve at least even the score.

I then did a very silly thing.

I did a “Zigger Zagger” and scared the three girls to death.

I had a very quick word with Frank Sinclair and I thanked him for his kind comments about my performance on the five-a-side pitch in New York. He seemed to be enjoying himself on the tour. I can pay him no bigger a compliment than this; when we used to call in on Ron Harris in the ‘nineties, Frank was always a player who Ron rated. Frank was maybe not the most skilful, but a player who always tried his hardest. A player of guts and determination.

Good one, Frank.

As I wandered around the pub, bumping into a few old friends – and a few new ones – I noticed some Chelsea fans not joining in with the songs. I secretly tut-tutted to myself and hoped for solidarity later on that evening. It would be no time for shyness or indifference.

At 6pm, we were told to board the fleet of four yellow school buses which had assembled in the little side street outside the pub.

Another surreal experience, another typically American moment, another memory for me to take away with me.

Yellow school buses.

How quintessentially American. How hugely untypically Chelsea.

School buses.

The sight of us piling into the yellow vehicles still brings a smile to my face.

We were allowed to drink beer on the 45 minute journey to PPL Park. As the four buses roared along I-95, and then got caught in commuter traffic, and then raced each other, with fans gesticulating wildly at each other, with the skyscrapers of downtown Philadelphia in the background, it was a wonderful moment.

Why can’t all Chelsea away games be like this, full of excited fans, smiling faces, with none of the surliness shown by sections of our usual support?

The beer was going down well and the songs were roaring. We had two Seattle Sounders fans on our bus and they led the way; others followed. Speedy was in good form and I followed with a few old favourites. There is nothing like a beer to keep your throat well-oiled. I chatted to a few new faces and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

In fact, I didn’t really want the journey to end.

We were eventually dropped off way past the stadium. Beth was far from pleased and I could understand her displeasure. Out in the bright evening sun, I soon chanced upon a few familiar faces that were having a little all-American tailgate. Beers were handed out and we even had a little kick-about. Tim from Philly, Mike from New York, Matthew from New York wearing a vintage NASL Memphis Rogues T-shirt.

At the baseball game on the Monday, I had chosen to wear a Philadelphia Fury shirt in honour of the great Peter Osgood who played for them during the summer of 1978.

The time was moving on. Away in the distance, the stadium looked a picture. Beyond, the Commodore Barry Bridge – again, so typically American – was proving to be just as magnificent.

By this time, my head was buzzing, but I knew I had to get inside the stadium in order to get a share of some the pre-match atmosphere. I was also concerned about getting a fair share of photographs.

I began the long walk to PPL Park, with the sun just starting to set to the west. By now, I had lost contact with everyone and was – ahem – walking alone. At the pub, I had met a Chelsea fan who was wearing a bona fide shirt from 1991 – Commodore – and I met another one just outside the stadium.

I had a little banter with a few Union fans; friendly, in the main.

I did wonder, though, why so many fans were wearing scarves.

In July.

It seems that the US “soccer” fan base has clearly decided that a scarf is the de facto mark of football subculture, whereas – in reality – very few regulars wear scarves at Chelsea.

Discuss.

I bumped into Kev outside. Kev sits no more than eight seats away from me at Chelsea and we have been keeping each other updated with stories and rumours of this 2012 tour for what seems like an eternity.

Now, we were both there in the flesh.

Brilliant.

I was amongst friends in the Chelsea section at PPL Park. We were positioned at the top of the terrace. A few yards to my right were Funchficker and Mrs. Funchficker, Lottinho, The Bobster, Captain Jack and Speedy. Alongside me was Rey, from Los Angeles, and I was so pleased to see him again. Behind – a real surprise – was Mike Dutter and I haven’t seen him for ages. Phil was there with the Iowa Blues. Beyond – the OC Hoolifans, Mike Price at only his second ever Chelsea game, the Boston Boys…everyone together, everyone well-oiled and up for it. In front, Mark Coden – like me, an ever present on all of these recent Chelsea tours to the US.

The game against the MLS All-Stars would be my eleventh such game.

I had taken several photographs of the bridge on my approach to the 19,000 capacity stadium but was rather annoyed that its iconic steelwork was out of sight, just beyond the stand to my left. I had admired the way that the roof of this stand seemed to extend out to the bridge.

Above, the sky was slowly turning a deep blue. The moon was strikingly clear above the stand to my right.

The Chelsea fans around me were standing.

And we were clearly in good voice.

The stage was set.

The spectators were urged to take part in a two-part “stunt” but I had neither the time nor the energy for it. I believe the words “Chelsea” were visible on cards held aloft by the fans in the stand to my right, but the moment was lost to be honest.

Secondly, the colours of the American flag were visible.

The entrance of the teams.

Fireworks.

My head was still buzzing and I still needed to concentrate on getting some photographs.

Click, click,click.

The game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Steve-O set the tone early on with a trademark “Zigger Zagger” and the chanting continued throughout the match. This was just what we had hoped; that the closeness of everyone would produce a subsection of PPL Park akin to an away terrace at Blackburn, Everton, West Ham or Tottenham.

I noted one chant which was new to me –

“You Play Soccer. We Play Football.”

I liked that. A little jab at the MLS hierarchy. Keep ‘em on their toes.

All the Chelsea classics were aired; too numerous to mention. I’m sure everyone has their own particular favourites.

Over to you.

Halfway through the first-half, I absolutely loved the roll-call which was started by the usual suspects to my right.

For Mary-Anne and Paul –

“Tennessee, Tennessee, Tennessee.”

For the Funchfickers –

“Ohio, Ohio, Ohio.”

For Lottinho, Dennis and Detroit Bob –

“Michigan, Michigan, Michigan.”

And for little old me –

“Somerset, Somerset, Somerset.”

Lottinho then pointed at Dennis –

“Puerto Rico.”

Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

At the break, I rushed down to buy a beer, a hot dog and a match programme. The beer did its job because soon into the second half, I let rip with another “Zigger Zagger.” I was elated to hear the thunderous response to each guttural yelp. However, I knew I was reaching the end of my capabilities when I reached the closing moments.

“Ziiiiiiiiiger” (Oh God – I have to do a big ending here.)

“OI.”

“Zaaaaaaaaager” (Oh God – I’m barely going to be able to make this.)

“OI”

(Here we fcuking go – in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“ZIGGER ZAGGER, ZIGGER ZAGGER” (…only just!)

“OI OI OI.”

A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.

We were not deflated, though. We kept singing till the end.

It was a proud night in Pennsylvania.

If the long walk back to the bus wasn’t tiresome enough, we were then kept waiting for all buses to depart. Canners was on my bus back and I leaned towards him and said –

“Fcuking hell Paul. I saw your Stamford Bridge debut thirty years ago and now, here we are, on a school bus in Philadelphia.”

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

It was a quiet bus ride back to Philly.

Throughout the evening, Roma’s daughter Vanessa had texted me a few times to see what time we would be getting back into town. It seemed that they were halting their long drive back to North Carolina especially to call in to see me in Philadelphia. I gave them instructions of how to reach Tir Na Nog, but I wasn’t sure if they could delay their drive home for long.

I quickly darted back to the apartment to drop off a few things and made my way to the pub.

I was in mid-text to Vanessa when I looked up to see the three of them walking towards me.

Ah, that cheered me up no end.

With typical disregard for authority, Vanessa had simply parked her car right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, right underneath a sign which plainly said “no parking.”

Now that, my friends, is Proper Chelsea.

They, of course, were horrified to hear that Chelsea had lost.

“Yep, we always lose to the MLS All-Stars. I don’t think we’d better play them again.”

We returned to Tir Na Nog and met up with the usual suspects once more. The mood among my Chelsea mates was defiant. We all agreed that the singing and the atmosphere amongst the “away” fans had been magnificent. I was certainly full of praise, if not full of voice.

I was croaking again.

The time was moving one. It was past 1am. I knew that the night wouldn’t last forever. With real sadness, I said my goodbyes to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. This was the first time that I had met Shawn and I wanted to have a little moment with him. I crouched down and babbled out something like –

“Shawn – it has been so good to see you. It was great to see you in New York. And it has been even better to see you tonight. You’re a lucky boy. You have a great mother and a great sister. And you’ve seen Chelsea play! Now, until I see you again, I want you to know that we all love you.”

To which he smiled and said –

“I just farted.”

My words had obviously impressed him.

I waved them off as Vanessa drove away into the night.

Back in the apartment, Lottinho, Speedy and I spent a few philosophical moments as we looked out into the city from our balcony. It had been a simply superb time and we had enjoyed ourselves immensely in Philadelphia.

Until we do it again.

“Phriendship And Phootball.”

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