Technological developments and money allow past times to be re-captured as never before, and with the media constantly bombarding us with memories of yesteryear, embracing the nostalgia Zeitgeist has never been simpler.

Fans of music and football find it easier to mark the passage of time than most. A tune played at random on your MP3 player, reading an old match-day programme – it can make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on end. Combine the two and the effects can be considerably more lump-in-the-throat lachrymose than watching Chelsea Old Boys FC playing a West Ham 1980s select side down at Tooting and Mitcham, and then going to see the reformed Sex Pistols treading the Hammersmith Apollo boards in the name of filthy lucre.

I served my Chelsea apprenticeship on the Shed terrace in the punk era. Back then, the Blues were a destitute Second Division side, more feared for the marauding hordes of boot-boys that followed them in large numbers when they travelled away from home than anything remotely resembling the beautiful game they aspired to play on the pitch.

The Clash were my band, and whilst the Pistols may have had Paul Cook and Steve Jones as Chelsea fans in their ranks, they had the infinitely cooler Joe Strummer keeping the Blue Flag flying high.

Editor’s Note: During a drunken scene from Alex Cox’s movie Straight to Hell, you can see Joe Strummer kicking a tin can and calling out the names of footie players such as David Speedle, Pat Nevin, and Kerry Dixon.

Strummer’s untimely death in 2002 ended any remote possibilities of the group re-forming to cash in on the nostalgia craze, but their legacy lives on. And for many people they remain, as the publicity manifesto once read, ‘the only band that matters’.

So anyway, I’m nursing a New Years Eve party hangover in my home office. It’s January 1^st 2009. I’m minding my own business, thinking about this and that … you know the way you do … when two things happen at once … the unmistakable, amphetamine fuelled, three chord chug of ‘White Riot’ by the Clash leaps from the speakers my iPod is connected to, at the same time as my girlfriend pokes her pretty head round the door handing me a football programme she’s found amongst a pile of old magazines and newspapers in the garage.

‘London Calling’ and ‘Rock the Casbah’ may well feature in the top twenty of many peoples all-time-favourite rock track lists, but at the end of the day all the Clash singles come down to ‘White Riot’. It was their first single and it had the viscerally brilliant ‘1977’ on the B-side.

The programme, dated Saturday February 26^th 1977, is for a Second Division match played between Bolton Wanderers and Chelsea at Burnden Park. A top-of-the-table clash, it was my first Blues away game outside the Capital.

I’d celebrated the dawn of 1977 at a new club called the Roxy on Neal Street in Covent Garden. The Clash played, and I was there – a spotty fifteen years old kid having a riot on his own in a self-stenciled T-Shirt proclaiming my allegiance to the Shed Tea Bar. I remember Joe Strummer wearing a Persil white shirt with 1977 writ large across the front. I remember his battered old Fender Telecaster, and as I do so the seething paranoia that is ‘White Riot’ screeches to its arresting end. Start to finish in a fraction over two minutes. Brilliant!

‘White Riot’ was released as a single in March 1977 just a couple of weeks after I’d joined Eddie McCreadie’s Blue and White Army on their crusade north to Bolton. The Reebok Stadium, home to Bolton Wanderers for the past decade or so, is a soulless place. A feckless testament of what can happen when a famous old football club, which once had a true sense of spirit and working-class identity is uprooted from its traditional home and transplanted to an anonymous retail park in a nearby town. Burden Park, the Trotters pre-Reebok residence, was a proper old-school football ground, with a huge uncovered ‘away’ terrace redolent of the North Stand at Stamford Bridge, and one look at the cover of that tatty old programme was enough to bring the memories flooding back in glorious technicolour.

Getting off the grimy football special, one of three organized by the club that day, I recall being prodded and provoked all the way down the Manchester Road by mallet-faced members of the local Constabulary keen to boost their arrest figures and their reputations. Then there was that unmistakable football smell of horse-sh*t and hamburgers pervading the olfactory senses. A leaden sky threatening to unload rain by the bucket-load justified the mass exodus of Blues fans from the uncovered Railway End across the pitch to the Great Lever End, much to the chagrin of the local Old Bill. Resplendent in my Wandsworth Borough Council donkey jacket, red and white bar scarf (the one with the thin green stripes), blue denim bollock stranglers and cherry red Dr Martens boots, I’d stood out like a sore thumb. But there were a lot of sore thumbs in Bolton that day. The atmosphere? You could cut that with a knife. It was more incendiary than any punk concert I’d ever been to. Under heavy manners, that was the Chelsea ‘away’ experience back in 1977.

Chelsea were 2-0 down at half-time. The Blues team comprising John Philips in goal, Gary Locke, Graham Wilkins, Garry Stanley, Steve Wicks, David Hay, Ian Britton, Ray Wilkins, Steve Finnieston, Ray Lewington and Kenny Swain had looked like they would be being displaced at the top of the table by a determined Wanderers side, until Eddie McCreadie’s fire and brimstone sermon during the lemon break changed the course of the match. The Blues stormed back with two goals in three minutes midway through the second half. Jock Finnieston, back in the side after missing the last three games with a depressed cheek fracture, intercepted a shabby Sam Allardyce back pass to score his 18^th goal of the season, and Swain levelled proceedings with his 12^th goal of the campaign. The attendance of 31,600 was Bolton’s biggest league gate of the season, and I for one went home happy.

For Burden Park read Asda now. They don’t make football grounds like that anymore. The synthesized sterile Reebok with its futuristic tubular steel arches, anomalous baize-like pitch and US-style playing of James Brown after the new-fangled Trotters find the net, must have Wanderers icon, Nat Lofthouse (the Lion of Vienna, now a sprightly Octogenarian) choking on his meat and potato pie and chips as he surveys the scene in front of him on his regular visits to watch the club whose colours he famously graced back in the day.

Some new stadiums work. The Emirates par bitter, twisted, green prickly-suited envious example, but the Reebok doesn’t. The one saving grace of this abominable space-age place is the part it plays in the history of Chelsea Football Club. On Saturday April 30th 2005, I was privileged to be in the company of several thousand Blues fans in a crowd of 27,653 who witnessed Frank Lampard rattle in a couple of goals – which granted Chelsea a 2-0 victory, and saw Jose Mourinho’s men crowned Premiership Champions – the league title headed to SW6 for the first time in fifty years. What a glorious day that was. ‘Have you ever seen Chelsea win the league? Yes we have!’ Had he been alive, Joe Strummer would have been delirious.

I repatriated the old programme from 1977 back to the cupboard from whence it had been misplaced, and resisted the temptation to fish out another – opting instead to cue up a few more Clash tunes on my iPod. If Joe hadn’t died, maybe they would have re-formed and given many fans another opportunity to relive their youth, but then it wouldn’t have been the same as it was ‘back in the day’. As for those old-school Chelsea away games, no two were ever the same. Never have been and never will be. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, there is one constant that is always guaranteed for followers of the Blues … no matter how much money is flowing through the Stamford Bridge coffers at any given time, Chelsea never seems to lose her propensity to surprise, excite, madden and disappoint. Glorious unpredictability? I’ve loved every minute of it, and looking back over all those years, I wouldn’t want to change a thing. Well not much anyway. Oh go on then, perhaps that John Terry penalty miss in Moscow.

Up the Chels!

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’, ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’ and ‘One Man Went to Mow’ and the co-author of ‘Chelsea Here Chelsea There’. Copies are available to buy with a discount of up to 60% and free postage within the UK at http://www.overlandandsea.net/

If only eh?

Tis the season to be jolly tra la la la la la la la la. Yeah! Fair enough … after all we are top of the league and, as we like to remind ourselves having a laugh. Mind you what are we laughing at? The misfortunes of others of course, and let’s face it we have to because if we didn’t we would surely cry tears as big as December cabbages at our own.

Let’s take a light-hearted look at the others first …

Starting with Liverpool.

For many years now the supporters of Liverpool Football Club have taken delight in pouring scorn on our beloved Chelsea. ‘F*ck off Chelsea FC you aint got no history’, is the opening line of their grammatically incorrect ditty. Yeah, but ‘we’re making history not reliving it’, we tell them … diplomatically of course. ‘We’ve won it five times’, they counter, and with rapier-like wit we ask them the simple question, ‘Have you ever seen Gerrard win the league?’ In the vernacular, this form of rhetorical question is most often seen as rhetorical affirmation, where the certainty or obviousness of the answer to a question is expressed by asking another, often humorous, question for which the answer is equally obvious; popular examples include Is the sky blue? Is the Pope Catholic? and Does a bear shit in the woods? In the case of the question ‘Have you ever seen Gerrard win the league?’ the answer is an emphatic, No! Though the Matthew Harding massive word it slightly differently. We are now a tenth of the way into the 21^st Century and Liverpool’s history is in danger of becoming ancient history. No doubt in years to come it will form part of the school curriculum. ‘Today children we will be learning about how the Egyptians built the pyramids, about the first moon landing and, for those of you interested in association football, how Liverpool FC won it five times.’ In Rafa we trust … ho ho ho.

Next up Manchester United.

Whilst Liverpool are hamstrung by a woefully inept manager in Rafael Benitez, United have Sir Alex Ferguson, arguably the greatest manager that ever lived. Fabulous Fergie has won it all and in some style … but boy is he a bad loser. Without the talismanic Cristiano Ronaldo, sold to Real Madrid for a kings ransom, United are like Samson shorn of his locks. When Rooney misfires, they stutter like Gareth Gates on amphetamines, too reliant on the geriatric wing-wizardry of Ryan Giggs and of course Fergie-time … ‘The fourth official has indicated he will add as much time as is necessary for United to score a winner.’

Walking out of Stamford Bridge, disconsolate and frustrated after the 3-3 draw with Everton I, like many others, fully expected United to have reeled Chelsea in by evensong that day … who would’ve thought Villa could win at Old Trafford? What we didn’t know then was that an increasingly ‘injury ravaged’ Red Devils defence was about to develop more holes in it than a large slice of Swiss cheese. Fulham 3 – Manchester United 0 was the pick of last weekends ‘shock results’ topping Avram Grant and Pompey beating Liverpool. I don’t know what made me laugh louder, the result or affable Fools manager Roy Hodgson suggesting that the Cottagers born-again striker Bobby Zamora could soon be knocking on the door of and England place. Imagine waking up to the headline, ‘Zamora hat-trick wins World Cup for England’ … glorious unpredictability on a hallucinogenic scale. With Lenny Peters and Stevie Wonder rumoured to be lining up in United’s back four over the festive period, I’m sure we’ll be having a few more giggles at Fergies expense whilst the snow lays round about, deep and crisp and even.

Then of course there’s Arsenal.

Another team whose followers mask current on-field inadequacies by referring anyone who cares to listen, or indeed has no choice in the matter, to their own esteemed heritage. Those of us fortunate enough to be within the unhallowed confines of the Emirates at Ashburton Grove, or Cashburning Grave as I prefer to call it, on November 29^th were treated to the usual pre-match ditty of ‘sh*t club no history’. As the rain poured down and the goals went in, I looked around the rapidly emptying stadium, at the hoardings that circumvent the ground … you know the ones I mean right? Depicted on them are all ‘the’ Arsenal’s trophies with the years they were won writ large underneath.  The last of these was the FA Cup in 2005 … since then nothing. ‘Five years (well almost) and you’ve won f*ck all’. Back in the day when I was serving my True Blue apprenticeship on the Shed Terrace a victory away at Arsenal was as rare as an Essex virgin … how times have changed. Like many football supporters up and down the land I have long since stopped quaking in my boots, fearful of what might lie ahead when Wenger’s kids fulfil their true potential … we’re still waiting … and waiting … and waiting.

I could go on.

Tottenham Hotspur under the guidance of Harry Redknapp have delusional aspirations of breaking into the top four. Having beaten Wigan Athletic 9-1 at the Lane you can imagine the mood their supporters would have been in for the next home game against relegation haunted Wolves. A Lilywhite pal of mine told me the most popular bet being placed with bookies at the ground that day was Defoe to score first. There’s no such thing as a poor bookmaker … well not in N17. Final score. Tottenham Hotspur 0 – Wolves 1. No, honestly, you couldn’t make it up.

And so the famous CFC.

‘Carefree wherever we maybe’ … too carefree if you ask me. Since that sensational 3-0 victory at the Emirates, Chelsea’s form has dipped alarmingly. Thus far in December, the Blues playing record in all competitions reads played 6, won 1, drawn 3 and lost 2. We may ridicule Manchester United’s defensive frailties … ho ho ho … go on treat yourself it is funny after-all … but if you analyse Chelsea’s results across the season to date you will note that the Blues have conceded more goals in December than in all the preceding months put together!

There are lies, dammed lies and statistics, but as any keen student of the Blues will tell you the portents don’t look good. Fergie has a tailor made excuse for United’s shabby defensive performances … injuries … whilst in SW6 there are doom-mongers who will tell you they’ve seen it all before … last year in fact. I was truly appalled by the booing from sections of our home support following the 3-3 draw with Everton, it reminded me of the season of goodwill last year when things started to go slightly pear-shaped for former World Cup Winning manager Big Phil Scolari … remember him?

There’s nothing like a spot of déjà vu to focus the mind and brittle the bones, especially where Chelsea are concerned. After the Everton match Cech and manager Carlo Ancelotti gave the same explantion for the set-piece goals. We defended too deep. Cech wasn’t allowed space. It was a collective mistake. From where we were sat, high up on the Gate 17 gantry, it appeared to be more a case of the defenders having lost faith in the keeper’s ability to come and to dominate. They retreated and made mistakes. It’s a recurring problem caused by a recurring problem, Chelsea fail to cope with corners, free-kicks and long throws. ‘We thought the problem with the set-plays was resolved after Aston Villa,’ Ancelotti said in reference to the defeat at Villa Park in October when both goals came from corners. ‘We have to return to work. Sometimes when you have confidence you lose some attention and opponents take advantage’.

‘Top of the league we’re having a laugh.’

‘Petr Cech reminds me more and more of Dracula these days,’ quipped Uncle Tom Broderick as the ref blew for time to conclude the Everton debacle. ‘He was afraid of crosses as well wasn’t he.’ John Terry’s ruddy face looked like a smacked arse as he stormed off the pitch. His programme notes stated: ‘Requirement today: a win. The result is paramount’. With the exception of the scrappy 2-1 win over bottom of the league Pompey, it would appear that JT’s words are falling on deaf ears on the training ground, in the changing room and on the pitch. One win in six in December, there’s nothing unusual in that in recent times for Chelsea Football Club who clearly dislike like this time of year. This time last season Big Phil guided the Blues to the following sequence of results DDWDDL and we all know what happened to him.

I remember walking out of the Emirates after that emphatic 3-0 win over the Gunners saying to Uncle Tom that ‘the title was ours to lose’. Those words have yet to come back to haunt me … but God only knows how. It’s been another eventful year in the colourful history of Chelsea Football Club and, despite the recent malaise, we remain top of the league and having a laugh. I’m sure Carlo will have the lads out on the practice pitches at Cobham on Christmas Day morning practicing how to defend set-pieces … so there will be absolutely nothing to worry about when we play Birmingham City on Boxing Day.

In Carlo we trust (and, failing that, there’s always Ray Wilkins).

You know that!

Merry Christmas and a Happy Blue Year.

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’, ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’ and ‘One Man Went to Mow’ and the co-author of ‘Chelsea Here Chelsea There’. Copies are available to buy with a discount of up to 60% and free postage within the UK at www.overlandandsea.net

The Blues had lost the match 2-1 in a pulsating encounter, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory after Scott Minto had given travelling fans some early cheer with a fabulous 2^nd minute goal. Player-manager Ruud Gullit, making his first appearance of the season, had been Chelsea’s best player, but the enterprising Trotters had dispatched their illustrious visitors with a gung-ho performance which had left those who’d bothered making the trip from London cursing the same-old-same-old. As maddening as mercury, that was Chelsea for you.

‘Where were you when you were shit?’ is a popular taunt levied at 21^st Century Blues fans. ‘How much time have you got?’ I am prone to reply. The League Cup ha ha ha. Any Chelsea masochist of a certain age will regale you with tales of woe involving calamitous defeats at footballing outposts such as Crewe, Scunthorpe, Scarborough and Wigan … losing a days wages and a nights sleep following the Blues on the road to nowhere was a character-forming part of my life.

6am, I’m bolt upright, turning up the volume on the radio … shocked by the lead item on the news which is confirming an earlier report that Chelsea Football Club vice-chairman, Matthew Harding had been killed in a helicopter crash. Multi-millionaire Mr Harding, 42, pilot Michael Goss, 38, businessmen Tony Burridge, 39, and Raymond Deane, 43, and magazine journalist John Bauldie, 47, died instantly when the Twin Squirrel aircraft crashed into farmland near Middlewich, Cheshire, and burst into flames as it was carrying the party home from a Chelsea v Bolton cup tie.

I was stunned.

It wasn’t as if Matthew was a personal friend or anything like that. I’d met him several times, but this had been well before he’d answered Ken Bates’ plea for financial assistance. An ex-girlfriend had been in charge of the directors’ dining room at Benfield’s, the city-based re-insurance group of which Matthew was chairman and as such I used to get to go to various company knees-ups. As we all know a shared love of Chelsea transcends traditional barriers of class, not that Matthew had any airs and graces. Office-boy made good, rags to riches and all that … good luck to him. Matthew welcomed a chin-wag with a like minded Chelsea individual, and here was a man who’d first stood on the Shed as an eight-year old boy and followed them ever since … home and away.

When the phone calls started as word got around that Matthew Harding had been tragically killed, I couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t been the millionaire businessman that he was, then he would still have been alive having journeyed to and from Burnden Park by more conventional means than helicopter. Come the end of the day, flowers, scarves, and notes of condolence festooned the Stamford Bridge gates as supporters gathered to share in their grief. The uninformed passerby might have thought a famous Chelsea footballer from yesteryear had died as opposed to the Club vice-chairman. But then the uninformed passerby could never have known just what Matthew Harding had come to mean to the supporters of Chelsea Football Club … and that was the reason I’d been stunned by the news at my waking hour.

Ken Bates famously bought Chelsea for £1, and some fans are of the opinion that by the time he sold out to Roman Abramovich he’d transformed the club into one of the biggest names in European football. Others have suggested that old Greybeard took over a club with debts of £600,000 and increased them so spectacularly that it became a case of selling Chelsea to the Russian billionaire or watching them go to the wall in cataclysmic fashion. Bates’ obsession with creating Chelsea Village almost bankrupted the club long before Mr A came on the scene and this precipitated Matthew Harding’s formal involvement during the 1993-94 season. Ken Bates later recalled the telephone conversation which launched their unlikely and some might say unholy alliance. “Ken Bates here,” he said. “I understand you’re richer than I am, so we’d better get together.”

Harding, immediately weighed Chelsea in with £5million to fund the construction of a new North Stand, and also lent the club more than twice that amount to purchase players. But there was no question of the younger man adopting the traditional boardroom values so beloved of Mr Bates. To the best of my knowledge I never saw Ken Bates wearing a Chelsea replica kit, or drinking with supporters in The Imperial public house on the Kings Road before a game. Who can forget Matthew turning up at the unveiling of Gianluca Vialli as a Blues player clutching a brand new home shirt already emblazoned with his name and number? “I’m just a fan who’s done rather well,” he once said, and the Chelsea massive took him to their hearts.

Bates’ priority was to build a futuristic stadium, Harding wanted a swashbuckling team to match the heroes of his youth. The two men were on a collision course which eventually resulted in Bates banning Harding from the directors’ box, citing “behaviour related to your heavy drinking both home and away”. The letter sent to Harding contained a P.S. which read: “Please ensure that your `Bates Out’ banner in the Main Stand does not obscure the valuable advertisement panels”. “Never mind,” replied Matthew, “I’ll go and sit in the North Stand. I presume that’s alright with you. After all, I did pay for it.”

The ban galvanised popular support for Harding and by now a large majority of fans wanted him to take over. A well-known spokesman for the Chelsea Independent Supporters’ Association crystalised opinion at the time saying, “Bates appears to think it is his club, while Harding’s attitude is that it is our club.” (The current market-leading Chelsea fanzine, cfcuk whose origins can be traced back to the CISA, originally came to life as Matthew Harding’s Blue and White Army and to this very day it still carries the strap-line published in memory of Matthew Harding on every single page.)

The bitter public feud rumbled on with Harding pledging that Chelsea fans would be given a vote in the future of the club if he won his power battle with Bates. “If I become chairman I intend to break some moulds, and one plan I have is to give club members the right to re-elect me as chairman. Chelsea have more than 25,000 members and they are the emotional shareholders of the club. I would go to them every summer and I’ll promise you this now. If there was a majority voting against me I would stand down instantly.” Harding’s words stirred the True Blue soul … ‘Matthew Harding’s Blue and White Army’, the chant would echo around the Bridge on match-days a testament to the faith supporters had in him.

In December 1995, the club announced after a board meeting that the pair would lunch and sit together at the home Premiership match against Newcastle. That implied Bates had agreed to lift the ban on Harding taking his seat in the directors’ box and using the boardroom facilities, though at the time both men refused to comment. By October 1996, Matthew Harding had committed £26.5 million to Chelsea Football Club and the irony was that both he and Bates were on the way to realising their own idealistic dreams. Had he lived, Matthew would have seen the Blues win the FA Cup at the end of the season and his journey to glory would have been complete.

Saturday October 26th 1996
Chelsea are at home to arch-rivals Spurs. The game itself was destined to be a sideshow from the minute Ken Bates took the decision was taken not to postpone it and, as wakes go, it turned into quite a knees-up-mother-Brown party. Wreaths from both clubs were laid in the centre circle before the match, with a pint of Guinness for Harding standing on the centre spot; Dennis Wise and Steve Clarke, team captain and club captain respectively, carried out a floral message reading “Matthew RIP” and presented it in front of the newly-named Matthew Harding Stand.

As the Chelsea players linked hands and stood, like the rest of us in the ground, waiting for referee Roger Dilkes to blow his whistle to signal the start of a minutes silence I wondered if this moment of reflection would be tarnished by ignorant morons as they usually were. Chelsea v Tottenham? It’s never been a marriage made in heaven now has it? From the first second to the last, you could have heard a pin drop. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. That Chelsea fans stood silent was not unexpected, that Spurs fans followed suite only added to Matthew Harding’s legend. Every supporter inside Stamford Bridge no matter what their allegiance recognised a part of themselves in Matthew … a supporter first and foremost … one of us.

Matthew Harding’s favourite expression was “Enjoy the game!” and boy would he have enjoyed this one. Chelsea took Spurs apart with a 3-1 victory, the goals coming from Ruud Gullit, David Lee and Roberto Di Matteo. “Everyone in the stadium today participated in a special way,” Gullit said in his post-match interview, “including the Tottenham supporters, and on behalf of the team and the staff I want to thank them. Everybody’s just happy about the way they played, and it was a perfect tribute to Matthew.”

Matthew Harding was only involved in the running of Chelsea Football Club for three years or so which makes it all the more remarkable that he could have made such an impression on Blues fans in such a short space of time. That he did is a testimony to the man and his principals. Chelsea supporter first and foremost, businessman second … a true man of the people, born on the Shed.

Matthew Charles Harding … born Haywards Heath, Sussex 26 December 1953 …Vice-Chairman, Chelsea Football Club 1995- 96 … died 22 October 1996 … we salute you. 

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’, ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’ and ‘One Man Went to Mow’ and the co-author of ‘Chelsea Here Chelsea There. Copies are available to buy with a discount of up to 50% and free postage within the UK at http://www.overlandandsea.net/

The world of music is no different although there seem to be more categories available for those who want to deify their heroes. There are a multitude of ‘rock gods’ and ’soul legends’, but within the comparatively new genre of dance music there are only a handful of true icons and Chelsea fan Paul Oakenfold is without doubt one of them.

Not content with redefining the role of the DJ in the mid 1980s and helping to shape rave culture, Oakie has produced and re-mixed some of the biggest artists on planet earth. His innovative, unit-shifting, work with the Happy Mondays, U2, New Order, Madonna and the Stone Roses brought a wider audience to his own prolific output most notably the global hit Starry Eyed Surprise which was famously used in the Diet Coke TV commercial. Paul was also the man behind the theme music for Big Brother. Early in his career, whilst working as an A&R man, Oakenfold discovered Will Smith and Salt ‘n’ Pepa, and he also promoted the Beastie Boys and Run DMC. Add being boss of his own record label, Perfecto, and scoring music for movies to an already impressive looking CV and you begin to wonder how Paul, who now lives in Los Angeles, has ever found the time to sleep, let alone follow the fortunes of Chelsea Football Club, the team he has supported since childhood.

It’s a long way from LA to Fulham Broadway.
Yeah! I’ve lived in LA for seven years, but fortunately there is a Chelsea scene here. There’s a supporters club, the Pacific Coast Blues. They started out in San Diego I think. Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols, he’s well into it. I speak to Jonesy all the time. It’s funny when I lived in the UK, I used to plan all my DJ gigs around Chelsea games. So when the team played away at Leicester let’s say, then I’d be playing out in Leicester the night before and go to the match the next day. I’d always have my eye in the fixture list when I was planning gigs and tours. I have Chelsea TV here so I can catch up on the games even if my work means I can’t see them live.

Your family originated  from Highbury, how did you come to support Chelsea?
That’s right, the family home was a 15 minute walk from Arsenal’s ground. Every one was a Gooner, including my Dad. It’s strange. I was taken to a Chelsea game by my Dad because he couldn’t get tickets to see the Arsenal. With a lot of kids, the first game you get taken to, you pick one of the sides, and that becomes the team you support.

Who were the Blues playing?
Stoke City. I can’t remember exactly when or what the score was, I was too young. But that was it, it was Chelsea for me. I was sold on them from that day. I’d hate to be a Gooner. What I remember about it wasn’t necessarily the match (laughs) but the whole thing that came with it. Going to that game was a big eye-opener for me. We moved to Thornton Heath when I was still quite young so I grew up in south London. Thornton Heath is Crystal Palace territory, and I got beaten up a few times by Palace fans.

Who were your first Chelsea heroes?
When I was going with my Dad it was Peter Osgood. I liked the glamour associated with going to Chelsea as well. I remember our old house had an outside toilet, it wasn’t really somewhere that you’d be proud to be living, so coming down to see Chelsea, the FA Cup winners, the kings of the King’s Road, well it was a different world. I was really attracted to all that. Yeah! Peter Osgood, David Webb, (starts singing) Ian Ian Hutchinson.

Who was your favourite Chelsea player in your youth?
When I got a bit older I started going to the Bridge on my own and doing the away matches. Bristol City, Leeds United, Newcastle. Chelsea travelled, I travelled. That’s when I really got into it and started watching how the players played the game. My Mum and Dad didn’t even know I was going to the away games. I would just go out and then get in at maybe 10-o-clock at night and not tell them that I’d gone to a match. They would’ve probably stopped me if they’d found out. It was about this time Ray Wilkins got into the team. Ray really stood out for me. He played a different style of football, you could see he had real talent. Wilkins’ running off the ball, movement and passing were amazing. It was a shame the Chelsea side he came into was in decline and ended up getting relegated. I was disappointed when he eventually left for Manchester United, but I still followed his career. Shame his brother Graham wasn’t much good though. (laughs) The best and worst I’ve seen in the Blue of Chelsea, and they’re brothers.

What about more recently?
Zola. Zola was a Plan B player. He made things happen. A man of his word, what a shame he’d already pledged his future to Cagliari when Abramovich arrived. Chelsea might have won the league in Roman’s first season.

Were you there when Wise went up to lift the FA Cup in 1997?
Yeah! The Middlesboro game. There’s a funny story to this. We all met up at Stamford Bridge for a few drinks and then got a coach up to Wembley. There was about forty of us, we were well up for it. I thought I’d better go to the toilet before kick off, but I got held up in a queue. You know what happened next don’t you? After waiting all those years to have something to cheer about, I missed Di Matteo’s goal. So when people ask me about that game, I always say we only won 1-0.

What do you make of the problems at Chelsea last season?
Scolari! (laughs) All I can say about Scolari is that when Stevie Clarke left Chelsea for West Ham, things took a turn for the worse. He didn’t know what to do. I don’t really know yet how good a manager Zola is, but Clarke proved himself as a coach over a long period of time at Chelsea and he’ll be a big part of the reason West Ham are doing well again. He should never have been allowed to leave. Maybe he’ll come back one day. Maybe with Zola, but I’d like Mourinho to come back to Stamford Bridge if Hiddink doesn’t stay. Scolari might have won the World Cup but he didn’t know how to manage in the Premier League.

Were you a big fan of Jose Mourinho?
Jose Mourinho was the best. I really started to enjoy everything about Chelsea again when he came to Stamford Bridge. It was electric, I don’t care what some people say, Chelsea were so exciting to watch. The team, the players, the belief. I loved every minute of it. 

What’s the most memorable Chelsea game you have attended?
That’s a tough one. There are two games that really stick out in my memory. When we done Barcelona 4-2 in the Champions League in March 2005 at Stamford Bridge and knocked them out on aggregate, that was special.  Chelsea looked unbeatable under Mourinho at that time. When John Terry got our last goal with a header the place went mental. What a night! The other one has to be the FA Cup tie with Liverpool at the Bridge back in 1997. There’s been a few dramatic games with Liverpool that I’ve seen, but that one was amazing. 2-0 down at half time, we were on our way out. I dunno what Ruud Gullit said at half-time but it worked. 4-2 we won. Zola’s goal, our second, was one of the best I’ve ever seen. I knew we’d win the cup after that performance.

Is there anything you miss about the old days?
No not really. We won fcuk all in the old days. As a kid I remember standing on the Shed having done most of my pocket money getting in and then being asked to put money in a bucket to save the Club. What I will say is that I think it’s a great shame that a lot of the people who used to come to Chelsea when I first started going have been priced out of the game. They never got the payback when it all came good.

Chelsea Village plc!
Yeah! I’d been a season ticket for ten or twelve years by then. We were in the West Stand I think. There were quite a few people from the music business. Alan McGee from Creation Records, people like that. But then they started promoting the corporate side of it in that area. We didn’t like it. We asked to move, and we got told that if we let our seats go then we would have to go on the waiting list the same as everyone else. Fair enough, but there was no trade off. When I moved to LA, that was it, there was no point paying out all that money to sit somewhere I didn’t want to sit when I did have the chance to come over for a game.

Is there any player you would have liked Chelsea to sign?
Well I can tell you where I think we went wrong this season, and it’s a shame really because the other players were in place, but if we’d got Robinho things might have worked out differently for Scolari. Having said that, it still doesn’t mean he would have had a Plan B. There’s a lesson to be learned there though. We need people at Chelsea who can make transfers like that happen, especially as there are other clubs with wealthy owners who are willing to pay big money to get the players they want. I do understand Abramovich not wanting to spend more money or overspend without getting a return. At the end of the day he’s running a business.

How would you sum up your love for the Blues?
I flew from Los Angeles to Moscow for a game of football, it cost me thousands and thousands of dollars and of course like the old days I’d planned my work around watching Chelsea. That’s love isn’t it?

Paul was interviewed by Mark Worrall, who is one of the authors of “Chelsea There Chelsea Here”. Copies pre-signed by cover star and Blues legend Kerry Dixon are available to order at http://www.overlandandsea.net/ postage is FREE to all UK customers.

During my formative years as a Blues supporter, I’d take my place on the crumbling old Shed Terrace and look on in angst as Chelsea huffed and puffed and toiled in vain to achieve any modicum of success, a mediocre Second Division side with as many problems off the field as on it. Relegation to the old Third Division had been on the agenda, but the unlikely combination of an outspoken Chairman in Ken Bates, and a mild-mannered manager in Johnny Neal, turned the Clubs fortunes around.

In 1984, after an absence of five years, Chelsea returned to the top flight … but not for long. In 1988, the Blues dropped through the First Division trapdoor and whilst the record-breaking season that followed culminated in the Club winning the Second Division title, there was, in truth, very little to cheer about as Chairman Bates continued his battle to save the Bridge.

1989/90, back in the big time, the Blues finished a creditable 5^th. But several seasons of mid-table mediocrity beckoned. Managers came and went. Hollins, Campbell and Porterfield all fell foul of old Captain Birdseye Bates, the latter, in January 1993, gained the dubious distinction of being the first manager to be sacked by a Premier League Club.

The Blues had been tipped to do well during the inaugural season of the new competition, but by the end of the Christmas period they were hovering above the relegation places. Enough was enough for Bates. Former Southend United manager, Stamford Bridge legend David Webb, who was selling mountain bikes at the time, was entrusted with the task of preserving Chelsea’s top-flight status something he duly did and, as the season drew to a close, many Blues fans scratched their heads in wonderment at what might lie ahead.

The answer was Glenn Hoddle and, as it transpired, 1993/94 was to be a defining season in the history of Chelsea Football Club.

Why? You might ask.

Nothing magical happened on the field of play; the Blues once more flirted maddeningly with relegation before finishing an underwhelming 14^th and, though the pilgrimage from Stamford Bridge to Wembley in the FA Cup was a sweet one, the final itself was desperately disappointing with Chelsea swept away by a rampant Manchester United side on their way to a league and cup double.

The answer comes in two parts.

Firstly, the appointment of Hoddle itself set off a chain reaction of events that would eventually lead to Mr Abramovich buying Chelsea Football Club from Mr Bates. Secondly, the final game of the season at Stamford Bridge, though sadly no-one knew it at the time, would be the last played in front of the old Shed End.

The appointment of Hoddle as player-manager was a welcome shot-in-the-arm for Blues fans tired of the inflexibility of Chelsea’s style of play. Out went 4-4-2 and in came the midfield diamond. The only trouble was the squad that Hoddle had inherited wasn’t exactly geared up for playing the enterprising ’sexy’ football he had his heart set on … that would come slightly later with the signing of Ruud Gullit.

Chelsea began the season with a home fixture against nouveau-riche Blackburn Rovers, taking to the field in a brand new Umbro strip that bore computer company Commodore’s Amiga logo which would feature on the club’s shirts from 1993 until 1995. Significantly, this was the first season when squad numbers were introduced and Glenn Hoddle came in at number 20.

A crowd of over 29,000 expectant souls convened at the Bridge to see what the maestro could muster from his troops and, for the first 20 minutes or so, they watched enraptured as a delightful display of possession football ensued. New signing Gavin Peacock and Dennis Wise instantly colluded with the gaffers game plan, whilst Frank Sinclair and Erland Johnsen looked composed at the back.

The Blues went ahead early in the second half when Peacock capped his debut by heading Wise’s cross past Bobby Mimms … happy days … but Blackburn’s combination of pace and power had Chelsea increasingly on the defensive and, with Chelsea’s left flank continually exposed, it was no surprise when the visitors equalized. Eleven minutes from time Mike Newell scored the winner for Rovers and we traipsed out of the Bridge bemused and dejected. Chelsea (4-1-3-2): Dimitri Kharine; Steve Clarke, Frank Sinclair, Erland Johnsen, Andy Dow (David Lee, 81 min); Glenn Hoddle; Gavin Peacock, Denis Wise, Mal Donaghy; Tony ‘hee haw’ Cascarino, John Spencer (Robert Fleck, 70 min). Sub not used: Kevin Hitchcock.

My depression didn’t last too long though as news filtered through that ‘the’ Arsenal, playing in front of a newly refurbished North Bank, had lost 3-0 at home to Coventry City. Ridiculously, all three City goals were scored by journeyman, pie-loving Scouser, Mickey Quinn. Media pundits immediately suggested Arsenal should sign the lardy striker as a foil for Ian Wright. Sadly for all concerned, bar Gunners fans that is, the club eventually bought Dennis Bergkamp.

The Blues season stuttered and spluttered along unconvincingly though, this being Chelsea, there was always likely to be a dose of glorious unpredictability to be found somewhere along the way. In this case it was the 1-0 home and away Premier League victories over Manchester United in which Gavin Peacock scored the winner on both occasions.

The first of these victories came in September at Stamford Bridge and a couple of weeks later the Blues defeated Liverpool 1-0 … was this the turning point? The answer was a resounding NO! Incredibly, Chelsea went on a stunning 11 match winless streak in the league that saw them plunge into the relegation zone at Christmas.

Hoddle had signed diminutive striker Mark Stein from Stoke City for £1.5 million in a bid to stop the rot but, despite the little fella scoring against Southampton at the Dell on Boxing Day, the pressure was mounting on the manager as the Blues lost 3-1. Thankfully, lady luck at last smiled on Chelsea and in the very next game Stein scored again for Chelsea in a 1-0 victory over high-flying (no honest they really were back then) Newcastle United. Steino was in the groove and on what was a record-breaking run of nine goals in consecutive games. It wasn’t all sweetness and light but Chelsea were on the road to recovery.

Perhaps the most entertaining game of Chelsea’s season came on February 26^th when the Blues entertained Spurs at Stamford Bridge. A sparse crowd of just under 17,000 watched as the visitors raced into a 2-0 lead with goals from Sedgley and Dozzell only for the jam to be taken out of the crowing cockerels donuts as Donaghy, Stein and Spencer hit back to make the score 3-2 to Chelsea at the lemon break. Under the bar, the Blues Russian stopper Dimitri Kharine was in inspired form making a series of world-class saves from sick-note Anderton, Scott, Gray and Campbell. Penalties settled the game. Andy Gray leveled the match from the spot on 71 minutes, but then failed to find the net when Kharine brought down Ronny Rosenthal 10 minutes later. Mark Stein settled matters with a penalty of his own in injury time. 4-3 to the Chels! It was livelier than usual in the Fulham Road that evening.

By the time the business end of the season came around Chelsea were safe, but the drama was far from over. At the top Manchester United won the title by a country mile, at the bottom it was a different story. May 7^th 1994 saw Chelsea host Sheffield United. To beat the drop, the Blades had to win, or at least draw, and hope that Ipswich Town or Everton lost.

A crowd of just over 21,000, including a gang of United fans dressed in Arab regalia, were at the Bridge to see if they could do it. By fielding the team likely to play at Wembley in the FA Cup Final the following weekend, Chelsea avoided any possible accusations that they might take things easy against desperate opponents. Twice United had the lead, indeed at half-time they were several places above the relegation zone whilst Mike Walker’s Everton had looked doomed as they’d trailed Wimbledon 2-0 at home.

As it happened, the Toffees rallied and saved themselves by scoring three goals whilst Sheffield United suffered late heartbreak as that man Mark Stein, out injured for ten weeks and wanting to prove himself fit for Wembley, found himself on the money leveling the game at 2-2 in the 76^th minute, before scoring a last minute winner. With just 30 seconds left, Dennis Wise centered and substitute Hoddle, finding himself in what he later called the ‘nose-bleed area’, headed the ball on for Stein to volley home the goal that severed United’s grip on the Premiership.

“It is one of those unbelievable moments in football but they happen,” said Blades manager Dave Bassett of his club’s relegation. “When you play Russian roulette, you sometimes get the bullet.”

Game over! Football can be a cruel game as Blues fans know oh too well.

It’s a crying shame that there was no grand celebratory farewell to the Shed, I’m sure there would have been had we known Blaster Bates’ intentions. Later that month Ken sent the bulldozers in and the famous old terrace was demolished and with that a large part of my youth was gone forever.

Mark Worrall is the author of the cult terrace classics Over Land and Sea, Blue Murder and One Man Went to Mow and the co-author of Chelsea here Chelsea there which is published on August 25^th.  Buy on line with free UK postage and save up to 50% on these titles at www.overlandandsea.net

In 1856 when Thomas Burberry opened his first clothing shop in Basingstoke, he could never have imagined that 150 years later his legendary check pattern, initially introduced as a lining to the gabardine trench coats worn by British officers serving in the Great War, would become synonymous with Chav culture following its haughty apprenticeship on the terraces of football grounds the length and breadth of our green and pleasant land. Old Tommy boy would be rocking and rolling in his grave if he could have seen how his iconic Burberry check trenchie, once favoured by nobility and stars of the silver screen alike, had transmogrified itself into the de-rigueur outerwear of the well heeled ‘90s football Casual addicted to expensive designer labels.

To add further insult, the degree of exclusivity that came with pricing clobber out of the reach of most mortals was erased almost overnight when the Burberry fashion house introduced affordable accessories like scarves and baseball caps, the latter becoming the headgear of choice for sartorially aware hooligans and their wannabe counterparts in search of an identity. The counterfeiters had a field day. Did you catch any of those CCTV ‘Binge Drinking Britain’ BBC documentaries from a couple of years ago? I’ll wager an old three-penny bit that the sovereign-ringed stars of the show that you saw retching, reeling and ricocheting off the walls into the arms of the local constabulary would have had some vestige of Burberry check about their persona. By the time the brand woke up to the problem with its UK image, the damage had already been done, but did anyone in the know really care? No, because the terrace trendsetters had already moved on.

From the mid ‘60s, through the ‘70s and ‘80s, in fact right up until the day that old Captain Birdseye Bates tore it down, the Shed terrace had been one of the most sternly critical catwalks in the country. The Mods, Skins and Punks that clambered up its concrete steps and congregated by the old white wall or the tea bar had an exhaustive eye for detail. In the early days it was all about the cut of the cloth, the number of buttons, the width of the tie and the style of the hair. Being part of a youth-cult was a 24 hours-a-day lifestyle choice, and those old-school Caesars of Stamford Bridge would rather have died than fallen behind in the race to be hip.

Chroniclers of style more-often-than-not pinpoint the eminent rise of the label obsessed football Casual to the fag end of Punk Rock and the well-documented European sorties of supporters of Liverpool FC, whose scally element would return home clad in the finest Italian and French sportswear to be had … sometimes literally, and followers of Scotland’s prominent team of that period, Aberdeen FC. I recall a slightly different story. Several years earlier, the Rose Hill Soul Patrol, a likeable bunch of slightly older, wedge-haired North Surrey lads, very much into the look modelled by David Bowie circa Young Americans, could be seen strutting their stuff on the West Stand Benches wearing expensive looking bowling shirts, pleated pegged trousers and beef-roll loafers, a sharp looking contrast to the donkey-jacketed, baggy-jeans wearing away fans who’d congregate on the adjacent North Stand terrace and look on like the rest of us with a mixture of shock and awe. When the jazz-funk loving Rose Hill Soul Patrol boys attended a match, they had no time to return home to get changed for a big night out. By default, the ‘smart-casual’ look required to gain admission to favoured haunts such as the Chuckwagon, Cagney’s, Crackers and Mr Terry’s suddenly found a new admiring and envious audience.

If the true origins of the football Casual remain mired in regional debate, one thing is certain. The onset of the Thacherite era heralded the dawn of label mania. Chemise Lacoste, Sergio Tacchini, Gabbici and Ellesse, the names trip off the tongue now. As Saturday approached, true arbiters of terrace style would be making their ‘what-to-wear’ decisions. That reassuringly expensive Cerruti polo-shirt maybe, those new Kappa tracksuit bottoms, and then would it be the Diadora Borg Elite or Adidas Forest Hill trainers that made it onto the plates of meat. Whatever the choice, no matter how many Embassy Regal you smoked or bottles of Holsten Pils you drank … you honestly believed you were fleet enough of foot to evade capture by fat sweaty DM-shoed coppers should you be found to be chanting ‘Chelsea!’ in a manner deemed likely to cause a breach of the peace. If you’re bored during the summer, why not take an adrenalin-fuelled trip down early ‘80s memory lane and check out Danny Dyer’s apparel in Nick Love’s recent film The Business. Were those Fila shorts really as tight as that? Believe it. If you don’t, then take a glimpse at a few early pictures of Blues legend Kerry Dixon kitted out in bollock strangling Le Coq Sportif and you’ll soon realise why our wives and girlfriends of the day started expressing an interest in coming to the occasional match.

My own personal love affair with ‘dressing up’ for football began around this time with my first Pringle sweater, a blue and white diamond affair stolen to order by a light fingered friend, that I regularly wore over a white Lyle & Scott roll-neck. Fiorucci jeans or a nice pair of Lois cords, short enough in the leg to expose Persil-white socks, complemented the look, and my feet were regularly encased in a pair of snide almost-but-not-quite Gucci loafers … concessions had to be made in those days as the meagre contents of my wage packet dramatically failed to cope with this fabulous new wallet-bursting affectation. Impoverished I may have been, but I stopped short of popping down to Portobello market and buying a roll of iron-on Lacoste crocodiles and a box of two-bob three-button shirts to iron them on to like certain enterprising larrikins I knew at that time.

In line with the economic boom, and a full year before Harry Enfield began urging people to look at his wad whilst roaring ‘loadsamoney’, the football fashion stakes had been upped significantly. That wonderful day out for the Full Members Cup Final against Manchester City back in 1986 saw plenty of Chelsea boys cavorting down Wembley Way clad in a dazzling array of designer gear ranging from Aquascutum to Armani, Gucci to Gaultier, Ralph Lauren to Dolce & Gabbana and Versace. All you needed to complement the look was one of those discreet 5p sized Chelsea pin-badges with the lion rampant … oh and while I’m reminiscing … what about that sensational Speedie hat-trick? Happy days!

The only trouble with the majority of these garments was the fact that despite their punitive cost, they tended to be flimsily assembled. No matter how much you earned, a pulled thread on a jumper or a jacket that had set you back the best part of a carpet was going to hurt. There was a definite gap in the market for clothes that were equally stylish, but slightly more hardwearing and able to cope with the vagaries of our eccentric climate … enter Stone Island. ‘Stoney’, was the diffusion brand of CP Company which had started out life as the Anglo-American sounding Chester Perry way back in 1974. Under the umbrella of the Italian manufacturer Sportswear SPA, Stone Island, the brainchild of Massimo Osti, a graphic artist from Bologna with an interest in both sailing and militaria, was conceived. Already fabled for the durability of its knitwear and jackets, Sportswear SPA poured money into material research and developed fabrics that not only looked good, but were durable and easily able to withstand the rigours and rough and tumble of terrace life as the fans who patronised the label soon realised.

What set Stone Island apart from the competition was its distinctive compass logo woven into a rectangular badge and buttoned with militaristic precision on the upper left arm. Another trip to Wembley, this time in 1994 to witness the demoralising defeat by Manchester United, was made memorable by the sight of numerous Stoney clad Chels singing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ in the pouring rain at the end of the 90 minutes … fantastic! The following season Chelsea participated in the European Cup Winners Cup. With an infamous reputation that was far from angelic, the continental police were often over zealous in their methods of policing our supporters. FC Bruges away was a prime case in point. The Belgian plod, acting on information from their English counterparts that right-wing political groups had infiltrated Chelsea’s support and were hell-bent on causing trouble, were on the lookout for troublemakers. The Stone Island compass was incorrectly perceived to be the insignia of one of these groups, Combat 18, and as a result a large number of bemused and frustrated Stone Island wearing Chelsea boys found themselves detained and deported despite the fact they had tickets for the game and had been impeccably well behaved. Another fabled story tells how the police were mistakenly led to believe that the Stone Island badge was in fact a medal, handed out by the top boys within the firms for outstanding acts of hooliganism!

Hoddle may not have won the FA Cup for us in 1994, but he brought in Ruud Gullit … who brought in Gianluca Vialli … who had a penchant for those exceptional formal shirts that had two buttons at the neck and a cutaway collar … which just happened to create an exceptionally smart look when worn under a crew necked Stone Island sweater, although you had to buy your Stoney one size larger to facilitate this. When the Stone Island flagship store eventually opened in Beak Street, Soho it offered a near religious experience for those who took the brand seriously. As with Burberry, Stone Island rapidly moved on from cult status to achieve critical mass. The clothes became more affordable, Osti left and was replaced as designer in chief by Paul Harvey, and for a time, particularly when the Oasis boys were swaggering around onstage in various odd looking Stoney creations it looked like the end of the road for the brands credibility. When I saw Ant & Dec presenting their pop show CD UK wearing Stone Island sweaters with the badge removed, a prerequisite to gain admission to some provincial pubs these days, my own collection of Stoney was consigned for a while to the back of the wardrobe. Harvey however, put together some great new collections, confounding the critics, me included, and Stone Island pulled through.

Nowadays, thanks in part to another of Nick Love’s films, the excellent John King novel based Football Factory, on any given match-day, in any given town, you’ll see the familiar compass logo in abundance. Click around on eBay and you’ll find a proliferation of enamel badges amalgamating the compass with the crest of just about every football club in Britain … someone recently was even auctioning a pair of ski’s bearing the Stone Island motif. Stone Island, or Clone Island? With all this exposure, not to mention Preston from the Ordinary Boys and Mike Skinner of The Streets swathing themselves in Stone Island, can the brand continue to hold its head high? Time will only tell. As for me, I’ve got several pieces that still look as good as the day I bought them … and more importantly I still love wearing them. If the compass logo is getting too ubiquitous for you, then why not return to the source and put down a deposit on a limited edition CP Company Mille Miglia jacket … a mere snip at £675. Having said that, not too far up the road from Bologna, in the medieval hamlet of Masagno, another Italian sportswear company have been busy building on a similar heritage in recent years. Boasting a range of clothes designed to meet the requirements of Third Millennium man, the impressively named Paul & Shark are throwing down the gauntlet to their Stone Island countrymen. My swanky Typhoon 20,000 jacket is repellent to the pressure exerted by 20,000 mm of water … just the job if I encounter any water cannon toting riot police on my travels away with the Chels in Europe next season.

What price brand loyalty then? At the end of the day, if you can be bothered, there are enough labels out there to create your own style. Follow the leader, be part of the pack … or stand out from the crowd and do your own thing. What do you fancy? Maybe you’re just happy to wear your replica Chelsea Adidas shirt with pride, there’s nothing wrong in that. Personal choice, or peer group pressure? Give me a break. Whatever your point-of-view, just remember there will always be fashion disasters whichever side of the fence you sit on, and be thankful that the scandalously dreadful Chelsea Collection that accompanied the arrival of Master Bates’ despised CFC lion logo back in 1986 has, along with said lion, been consigned to the dustbin of recent history.

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classic ‘Over Land and Sea’ and Blue Murder ‘Chelsea Till I Die’ his latest book, ‘One Man Went To Mow’, and the forthcoming ‘Chelsea There, Chelsea Here’ will be published in just a few weeks. For further information and the opportunity to purchase signed books visit www.overlandandsea.net

The football media circus may have re-pitched its tent 200 miles north of Stamford Bridge focussing its frenzied attentions on the engaging dramas unfolding at Manchester City, but that doesn’t mean to say that one or two clowns cant be found sniffing around SW6 for a story.

Those nice chaps from Match of the Day 2 were in town when Stoke City visited the Bridge recently. In speaking to myself, cfcuk editor David Johnstone and the elegantly coiffured (if somewhat portly these days) sage from the south coast Graham Fendle, they probably chose the wrong people to ask if we thought there was a crisis at Chelsea Football Club. Having supported the Chelsea long enough to remember the dark days of the mid 70s and early 80s when the very existence of the club we love was regularly under threat from creditors and developers alike, we were hardly likely to be fazed by the patchy form being displayed by the current team.

‘There’s no crisis here,’ I’d volunteered politely. What ended up on the cutting room floor was my suggestion to interviewer Kevin Day that the last time there was a crisis at Stamford Bridge a man with a big white bushy beard, who looked uncannily like Uncle Albert of Only Fools and Horses fame, had erected a huge metal fence around the pitch intending to run an electric current through it in order to prevent violent footballers such as Doug Rougvie invading the terraces and running amok amongst our peace loving supporters.

Anyone who saw the programme will know that our score predictions were slightly out, nevertheless an afternoon of dyed-in-the-Blue-wool, old school glorious unpredictability later there was no sign of the egg that Crystal Palace fan Mr Day was hoping would be smeared all over our faces.

Crisis is perhaps too emotive a word to describe the ups and downs at a football club, but if the truth be told the display of unity shown by Chelsea’s players before, during, and after the game with Stoke City failed to mask what was another slipshod performance against an unimaginative team whose lack of technique and overtly physical approach to the game reminded me of the Wimbledon side of the early 90s.

The debate about whether or not Big Phil truly understands the machinations of the way football is played in England remains as lively as it is ongoing and it is not my intention to further develop it here. One thing I will say in his defence is that he has had the courage of his convictions to drop Didier Drogba. Am I the only Blues fan tired of reading his dull and unimaginative diatribes in the press? One minute he wants to play for Chelsea, the next minute he wants to play for Marseille … or anyone who will have him. The only problem is no-one appears too interested in securing his services. Why?

During the Mourinho years, Didier Drogba was peerless. A fantastic striker with a passion for the game who endeared himself to Blues fans with gutsy performances, never-say-die work ethic and wonderful goals. When the Special One departed under a cloud the Drog became disaffected. Hampered by injury and disconsolate at the loss of his mentor, his form dipped and his temperament wavered. Moscow was the nadir in Drogba’s Chelsea career and many Blues fans who’d forked out a king’s ransom to be present in the Luzhniki Stadium for the Champions League Final fell out of love with him when his petulance got the better of him and he was red-carded for slapping United defender Nemanja Vidic.

In his recently published autobiography Drogba wrote: “I have seen the match on video and I believe I should not have been sent off with three minutes to go. If I had punched him, I would have understood. Now I wish I had.” The fact is Drogba was sent off. We will never know what the outcome of that final might have been had he remained in full possession of his faculties and on the field of play, though the widely held belief is that Chelsea would have prevailed.

Drogba has had ample opportunity to redeem himself both by word and deed (witness the rehabilitation of Nicolas Anelka) and yet he continues to disappoint match going Blues fans to the point where he has now become a divisive figure.

Didier Drogba tra la la la la was a strirring chant that unified supporters in the stadium during the Ivorian’s Stamford Bridge hey day. Now it’s fragmented. ‘You haven’t been to many games recently have you,’ voiced one disenchanted fan to another who’d started singing the Drogba chant when he came on as a substitute in Saturday’s FA Cup victory over Ipswich Town. ‘First time this season. Why what’s your problem mate?’ came the aggressively toned reply. What followed was a reprehensible three-minute-round of purple-faced finger pointing and an exchange of expletive riddled threats which was fortunately quelled by several stewards before matters got seriously out of hand.

Watching Chelsea in the 21^st century  is an altogether proposition to what it used to be. The redevelopment of the stadium coupled with the fact that at any given game their could be upwards of 10,000 supporters attending matches who do so on an infrequent basis can be a recipe for trouble when things aren’t going the way of the team. Everyone who pays good money to attend a football match is entitled to an opinion, and some are more vocal about their opinions than others.

Whilst the modern Stamford Bridge is blessed with fantastic facilities, unfortunately there is very little you can do if you happen to find yourself sat in the vicinity of an over-opinionated blue-veined dickhead, the probability of which increases markedly when Chelsea play cup games at home and many season ticket holders choose not to purchase their regular seats. Back in the day, if you didn’t like the company at close quarters on the terraces you simply moved away. Back in the day, I don’t recall the divisiveness amongst Chelsea supporters that we witness all too frequently today.

Chelsea’s average home league attendance has increased by 20,000 in the past 25 years and the clubs global support has grown at an exponential rate …  a beautiful thing in one respect but a double-edged sword in another. On Match of the Day 2, David Johnstone recalled the time that Chelsea almost got relegated to the old Third Division. Specifically, in May 1983 a transcendent Clive Walker volley saw off a plucky Bolton Wanderers side at Burnden Park spared the Blues blushes and saved the club from the drop. The outcome was pivotal in the fortunes of Chelsea in what was a genuine period of crisis for the club. DJ alluded to the fact that some people have short memories. The trouble is some peoples memories don’t stretch back that far, of course in many cases it’s not biologically possible, but that doesn’t condone fractious behaviour.

In my years of following Chelsea I have found her both a wonderful giving lover and a cruel fickle mistress. But unlike the women in my life who have come and gone she has never deserted me. Never has and never will do, and for that reason my love for Chelsea is unrequited. I know there are many like me, but then there are also many who just don’t get it. You know the old mantra, Win Or Lose … Up The Blues!

There are plenty of books which chart the progress of Chelsea Football Club down the years and maybe those who don’t have the longevity of support to understand that several home defeats is not a) constituting a crisis b) a cue to join in ‘you’re getting sacked in the morning’ chants and c) a reason to leave the ground early because the team are playing poorly.

The dire economic circumstances that many people find themselves in today means that many long standing genuine Chelsea supporters have been priced out of attending matches, their places filled in the main by ‘fans’ for whom the baited L*verpool chant about having no history may indeed have some creedence.

One such fan currently priced out of the Bridge is a former Chelsea player who grew up watching the Blues from the Shed and went on to play for the team he idolised as a kid (a peerless achievement which is unheard of these days). Several weeks ago, Kelvin ‘celery’ Barker and myself had the pleasure to meet up with and interview former Blue Dale Jasper for a new book project we are working on.

Sadly, many fans old enough to remember Jasper still shiver at the memory of that dreadful night at Roker Park back in the bleak midwinter of 1985 when Dale, still just a few games into what should have been a very promising Chelsea career, had the calamitous misfortune to concede two penalties to Sunderland in the First Leg of a League Cup semifinal. Chelsea lost 2-0 and never recovered the initiative. In true Chelsea fashion it was Clive Walker, the Blues saviour from a couple of seasons previously, who delivered the mortal blow in the Second Leg at Stamford Bridge. Young Dale was traumatised by what had happened, and with his first team opportunities becoming more limited he ended up  leaving the club and concluding his career in the lower leagues but one thing has remained constant throughout his life … his love of Chelsea Football Club. Dale is enduring a tough time at the moment, being involved in the building industry at the moment hasn’t helped, and his financial agenda cannot cater for visits to Stamford Bridge. All he can do is listen with a frown on his face as he hears the tales of civil unrest from those who attend matches.

Players like Didier Drogba, fortunate enough to ply their trade in an era when astronomical sums of money are lavished on them, should have the humility to recognise that they are blessed with good fortune to be able to do what they do in this day and age. It meant something to Dale Jasper to pull on the Blue shirt of Chelsea, from where I sit week in week out it means nothing anymore to Mr Drogba.

If there is one benefit from the fact that many ‘regular’ fans are having to give up their Chelsea fix, it is that hard-core Blues from over land and sea are now able to indulge their passion more frequently. These aren’t the so-called ‘tourists’ that are often chided, these are real supporters. I’ve lost track already this season of the number of times this season I’ve met up with members of the Swedish and New York Blues. You won’t catch them leaving early when Chelsea are 1-0 down with five minutes to go. They often ask me with puzzled frowns, ‘what is happening to our support, why are there so many arguments?’ I shrug my shoulders and suggest to them that the only way to really savour the True Blue Chelsea experience is to follow the team away from home.

This coming Sunday, Chelsea visit Anfield in the latest ‘must win’ fixture. Fortunately for the players, they will be cheered on for 90 minutes (plus any stoppage time) by 2000 or so fans who have genuine belief in the club they support.

Yeah! We all follow the Chelsea allright… and I for one can’t wait.

See you at the game!

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’ and ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’, his new book ‘One Man Went to Mow’ is out now. Copies are available to buy with a discount of up to 30% and free postage within the UK at www.overlandandsea.net

This hadn’t been the initial choice of our intrepid posse, but Flight Options late cancellation of their day trip had left us with no alternative unless we were prepared to stretch the journey over a couple of days. After the farcical scenes at Stockholm airport which followed the Blues European Cup Winners Cup victory over Stuttgart I’d vowed never to travel on an ‘official’ club package again. A decade on, out of necessity, my pledge with myself was broken, but to be honest with you it was pretty much the last thing on my mind as we’d bordered the plane and departed Blighty on schedule.

Martin Samuel, a seven times winner of Sports Writer of the Year, is the most successful sports journalist of his generation. The Times Chief Football Correspondent was named Sports Journalist of the Year at the 2008 British Press Awards, just weeks after retaining Sports Writer of the Year for the third time in succession … so says the on-line promotional blurb about him.

That’s a fairly impressive set of credentials in anyone’s book, and so you can imagine I’d rubbed my hands with gusto as I came across his article entitled Why the next crisis club could be Chelsea. What would the big beardy fella have in store for his readers? What fascinating evidence and insight could he provide to support his theory? Sadly the answer was not a lot.

What Mr Samuel did very well was over-articulate the concerns of many Chelsea supporters. Simply speaking he told us all what we knew already. With hindsight, what made his article even more interesting was the fact it was based on the following scenario and I quote:- ‘Were results to go against Luiz Felipe Scolari in the next five days, it would represent the greatest emergency the club have faced since that moment last season when Avram Grant lost a late goal, two points and, on the touchline, temporarily, his marbles against Wigan at Stamford Bridge.’

Of course it could have been very different. Last Wednesday, the Blues could have stoutly defended the 1-0 lead which Nicolas Anelka had deftly given them against Bordeaux. Victory guaranteeing qualification to the knock-out phase of the Champions League. Ditto at the weekend, when Chelsea deigned to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory against ‘the’ Arsenal. A win over the Gooners would have cemented the Blues place at the top of the table with the prospect of some comparatively easy fixtures to come over the busy Christmas period.

If Chelsea had hung on to the slender leads that they had enjoyed in both matches, the thoughts provoked by Martin Samuel’s article and those slight concerns we’d all been nurturing over the past couple of weeks would have been consigned to the back of our minds as we all got on with the jollities of the festive period made all the better by being top of the league … yeah we’d have been having a laugh all right.

Ahhh Chelsea, the bittersweet cruel mistress who plays with our emotions and shatters our hopes and dreams.

Samuel told us that Scolari’s Chelsea can be likened to flat-track bullies, mercilessly beating the meek and the mild and failing to stand up and be counted against any side made of sterner stuff. Sadly this remains the case. Chelsea have one point to show for their Premier League endeavours this season against Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal, the three teams who remain their key rivals in the quest for domestic honours. Cause for concern enough, made worse by the fact that all three matches have been played at Stamford Bridge, a once impregnable fortress where angels in football boots feared to tread.

The Burnley debacle, I’d laughed off as a dose of good-old-bad-old glorious unpredictability … that’s old school Chelsea for the uninitiated. A 1-0 lead surrendered to a team of battlers that simply wanted the prize more.

The solitary consolation which followed that desperate draw with Bordeaux at the dank, horrible, freezing Stade Chaban Delmas was the fact that thanks to Thomas Cook I was back in leafy south west London at 2am, several hours earlier than I have managed on a couple of away trips to the grim wastelands of the naughty north this year.

The defeat at the hands of the Gooners was a kick in the proverbial bollocks. Though many Blues fans headed for the exit before the final whistle, I chose to remain until the bitter end. There was something Chelsea-like, Mourinho era esque almost, about the way the Arsenal players celebrated a victory which restablished their title credentials whilst denting those of Scolari’s men.

Wenger’s team showed solidarity in the wake of the Gallas affair and unity with their fans, it was painful to watch. Chelsea by contrast trooped off disconsolately, out-thought, out-played and in the end well beaten. Mr Scolari chose to blame referee Mike Dean and his assistants for the Blues defeat. Arsenal’s equalizer may well have been offside, but their winner was good enough. The bottom line is that his Chelsea side, playing his way, created nothing and never looked liked scoring after Arsenal had taken the game by the scruff of the neck.

With Anelka back to his enigmatic worst, Kalou looking Kalou-less, Deco and Super Frank passing like ships in the night and a defence without Carvalho looking less than assured, it was down to the Blues swashbuckling wing-back Jose Bosingwa to buccaneer down the right flank and mix things up. Chelsea took the lead through Jose’s endeavours, but one man does not make a team and opposing managers are now realising that Big Phil approaches each match with the same strategy.

Love him or loathe him, Chelsea’s enfant terrible, Didier Drogba, watching from the stands as a result of his latest indiscretion, is just the type of player the Blues were crying out for when Arsenal seized the initiative and took the lead. Someone of his caliber on the bench could have made a big difference to the outcome.

The fact that Big Phil chose to use only two substitutes, the laughable Malouda and the unknown Stoch, gave his detractors sufficient ammunition to pound his withering reputation still further. ‘Where is PLAN B?’ they cry … ‘where is PLAN B?’

Where is PLAN B? That’s a good question. Personally I’d like to know what PLAN B is and PLAN C. Chelsea fans are an impatient bunch these days and I wonder how long it will be before the same dissenting voices who chanted ‘you don’t know what you’re doing’ at Scolari’s predecessor Avram Grant will be getting on the Brazilian’s case?

Cast your minds back to last season. Chelsea faced the Gooners at Stamford Bridge in the Premier League still seeking their first win of the season against the usual suspects. After Sagna had given Arsenal the lead on the hour mark, the writing looked on the wall. ‘Jose Mourinho Jose Mourinho’ was the not so rallying cry from sections of the Lower Mathew Harding Stand.

Grant was having none of it though. Time to execute PLAN B. With twenty minutes left he replaced Ballack with Anelka and Makalele with Belletti and switched to 4-4-2. The Mourinho chant morphed into ‘you don’t know what you’re doing’. In true Chelsea fashion, three minutes later Drogba equalized and not long after that the Ivorian scored the winner.

In no way am I trying to make a case for Avram Grant over and above Luiz Felipe Scolari, I’m just simply illustrating a point that sometimes to win games you have to change things around.

Looking at the fixture list and the league table, Chelsea’s hardest remaining games this season are all away from home: Manchester United (January 11), Liverpool (February 1), Villa (February 21) and Arsenal (May 9). Victories must be secured in at least two of those fixtures to give the Blues any chance of the title.

Peter Kenyon said recently that it was ‘extremely unlikely’ that Chelsea would sign any players in the January transfer window. He also stated today that Didier Drogba would not be climbing out of the same window and decamping to Milan and the clutches of the Special One. This being the case then Big Phil needs to work with the squad he has, repair team morale, get inside the Drogs head and sort it out and pray for no more injuries. Not much different then to what Wenger has had to do at Arsenal. As for match strategies, the man has won the World Cup for God’s sake, surely you can’t do that without having PLAN B … or can you? Did he?

There is no crisis at Chelsea Football Club; there was no crisis at Arsenal. Credible journalists like Martin Samuel are just trying to create drama and provoke healthy debate as well as sell a few extra newspapers … it’s what they are paid to do. Leeds United, now that’s what I’d call a crisis.

Meanwhile, in the long hard winter that lies ahead we will find out just how big Phil Scolari really is and whether or not PLAN B really exists. Let’s hope for all our sakes the geezer gets it right and puts a smile back on our faces because I dread to think what PLAN B Mr Abramovich might have in mind.

Keep the Blue Flag flying high.

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’ and ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’, his new book ‘One Man Went to Mow’ is out now. Copies are available to buy with a discount of 30% and free postage within the UK at www.overlandandsea.net

If I hadn’t already seen the Blues play in the Stadio Olimpico, I might have thought twice about it. Besides which, the final of the competition will be played there in May, and Big Phil, supremely confident that his Chelsea team will be there to contest it, has already sorted out his hotel accommodation. Good enough for Big Phil. Good enough for me. The Blues will be back in Rome, and I’ll be there with them.

New York, with its vaunted skyline and cityscape is an iconic city. Vertiginous glass and steel skyscrapers blend effortlessly with imperious neo-gothic towers and churches. Yellow taxis weave along the steamy streets jockeying for position with sinister looking black Escalade’s.

The pavements are permanently awash with a sea of people. Native New Yorkers going about their business, stressed out suits scurrying to appointments and tourists like me trekking to the magnificent art deco architectural spectacle that is the Empire State Building, ascending to the 102^nd floor and gazing out across the five boroughs that constitute the city. The Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens and Staten Island. Every New York based film you’ve ever seen suddenly comes to the forefront of the mind. The Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park, the murky malevolence of the East River. Landmarks aplenty and none more enduring than the Statue of Liberty watching charitably over her great city.

Like London, New York is a spectacularly diverse city, a melting pot of races, nationalities, colours, religious heritages and cultures from all over the world and as I’d arrived, I couldn’t help noticing its inhabitants were buzzing. The good citizens of the United States were in the grip of election fever, and multi-ethnic New York it seemed favoured the chances of Senator Barack Hussein Obama becoming the America’s first black president.

The thought had crossed my mind before I’d left Blighty that given the US was going to the polls on November 4^th I might find it difficult to find somewhere that might be screening the Roma / Chelsea match especially bearing in mind the time difference which meant the game would effectively be kicking off at 2.45pm.

Facebook to the rescue. The social networking site has a thriving global Chelsea community and amongst the myriad Blues ‘groups’ that can be found therein are the New York Blues. Founded in 1998 by expat Blues brothers, Mike and Steve Neat, the NYB congregate on match-days at Nevada Smiths a football-friendly New York drinker that can be found at 74 Third Avenue on Manhattan’s lower east side.

As it transpired, there are plenty of Chelsea fans who will testify that Nevada Smiths is ‘the’ place to head for if you find yourself in the Big Apple during the season. The day before I’d flown out to NYC, prior to the 5-0 drubbing of Sunderland, I’d been talking to the usual reprobates that loiter at the cfcuk stall … an increasingly popular place now it has a roof to shelter from the elements which seem more and more inclement with every passing match. Both Aggy (he of the ubiquitous Cyprus Chelsea flag) and fellow Chelsea author Martin King had been full of praise for both Nevada Smiths and the New York Blues.

Sorted then! ‘Nevada Smiths’, I’d drawled in the best mockney accent I could muster to the driver of the cab I’d flagged down at 48^th and Lexington.

Nevada Smiths ‘where football is religion’. This is a proper drinker, with a long polished wooden bar and a mind boggling selection of beers, wines and spirits from around the globe. A sports bar where the man behind the jump, a likeable Man U fan by the name of Jack Keane, knows exactly what you are talking about when you ask for a wifebeater top and a packet of pork scratchings.

A chant went up around the bar, to the familiar refrain of Oh West London is wonderful … Oh when Jack Keane is pouring pints Oh when Jack Keane is pouring pints I want to be at Nevada’s Oh when Jack Keane is pouring pints.

Jack Keane smiled. ‘It’s good here isn’t it,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. He wasn’t wrong there, was Keano.

The venue shows over 100 live football matches per week and boasts an impressive wall mounted array of HD flat-screen TV’s with crystal clear picture quality. The TV’s are interspersed with signed framed football shirts and memorabilia, with sections of the bar clearly devoted to local fan clubs. Whilst the New York Blues are the second oldest fan club based at Nevada’s after Manchester United, it is Barcelona whose matches command the biggest audience.

I wondered how this might work on a Champions League match-day such as today when some of these teams might be playing at the same time. Simple, explained another of the barmen, Keiron Slattery. ‘The Barca fans are being directed to the downstairs bar, whilst on this floor some TV screens will be showing the Chelsea match and others the game involving Liverpool and Athletico Madrid.’

This would be a recipe for trouble in England. Can you imagine Liverpool and Chelsea fans sitting together to watch a game? More than just beer would be spilt, there’d be claret everywhere! Keiron pointed out that the ‘locals’ who gather at Nevada’s to watch matches all know and respect each other. Groups of tourists, stag parties in particular, who happen on the place, are educated on arrival that fractious behaviour will not be tolerated.

At this point, having chanted Jack Keane’s name, the New York Blues, tonsils now well lubricated, didn’t want to leave out Keiron. Slattery, Slattery. If Jack don’t mind we’ll buy our pints from Kieron Slattery. Slattery, Slattery.

The Neat family emigrated to the US back in 1979, but distance hasn’t dimmed brothers Mike and Steve’s enthusiasm for all things Chelsea. They preach the Stamford Bridge gospel to anyone who will listen and there were plenty of born and bred Yankees present swathed in the Blue and the Blue who have been converted to the Chelsea cause.

Granted ‘official’ supporter club status by CFC, the NYB, like many displaced supporters clubs plan annual trips to SW6 and it is a frustration shared by many of these groups that corporate Chelsea only makes tickets available to what we would refer to as ‘lesser’ fixtures. Harri Hemi and his fabled Swedish Blues are a prime case in point here. These are the boys who lead the chanting when the atmosphere is a bit flat against the likes of Wigan Athletic or Bolton Wanderers. Chelsea, as Pipsqueak Kenyon is prone to remind us, are a global brand, and so the club should do more to reward the true Blue pioneers in some of the worlds far flung outposts.

Watching football on TV is no substitute for the real thing, but the New York Blues make the most of it. Among their number is a garrulous leather-clad spikey-haired old-school punk by the name of Simon who, as the Roma / Chelsea game kicked off, broke into a rousing rendition of Carefree. Thirty or so Blues fans, myself included, joined in, much to the chagrin of the Liverpool fans who were uncharacteristically muted.

The game itself is a disaster. Two calamitous errors by John Mikel Obi of all people sent Chelsea crashing to shock defeat at the hands of the Serie A strugglers who’d taken the lead through Blues old-boy Christian Panucci. Mirko Vucinic turned the screw adding two quick goals; and Roma were 3-0 up inside the hour.

We’d contented ourselves by cheering loudly when Madrid had taken the lead at Anfield and whilst John Terry’s 75th minute goal had given us a glimmer of hope it was not enough to save the Blues from a humiliating defeat. Worse was to follow when Deco was dismissed for a second bookable offence in the 80th minute and our woe was made complete when Liverpool were dubiously  awarded a late minute penalty from which Gerrard equalized.

The New York Blues are full of booze, the New York Blues are full of booze. We’ll shag your beer and drink your women. The New York Blues are full of booze.

By the time the final whistle blew, I was past caring. Several flagons of wifebeater and an inebriating shot of Jagermeister, courtesy of Punky Simon, had seen to that. Watching your team lose in such fashion can be a chastening experience but being in the company of true Blues who are just grateful to get a Chelsea fix and share in the experience a lot of us take for granted ie attending matches soon lightened the mood.

During 2008 my perspective on Chelsea’s burgeoning global support has changed. Meeting and talking to hospitable supporters groups like the Swedish Blues, Hungarian Blues and New York Blues has made me realize that Chelsea is for everybody. Forget the Johnny Come Lately gags; these are proper Blues fans whose commitment to Chelsea is as fervent as that of any season ticket holder … if not more! When these supporters make their pilgrimages to Stamford Bridge, they deserve credit and respect and not the sneering ‘tourist’ jibes levied at them by some of the less perceptive elements to be found along the Fulham Road on match-days.

I enjoyed every minute of my time in the company of the New York Blues, they are top Chels and I hope to return their hospitality when they come to SW6 in April.

If you find yourself in the Big Apple in the midst of the football season, you know where to head for … Nevada Smiths … but just remember to say ‘no’ if Punky Simon offers you a shot of Jagermeister.

KTBFFH

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’ and ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’, his new book ‘One Man Went to Mow’ is out now. Copies are available to buy with a discount of 30% and free postage within the UK at www.overlandandsea.net

The Champions League tie CFR Cluj was an excellent opportunity for Chelsea FC to demonstrate it genuinely cares for those supporters who follow the Blues over land and sea. What did the club negotiate on behalf of the fans? Four fifths of nothing, if the truth be told.

£18.50 for a match ticket plus £1.50 Chelsea tax was frankly ludicrous considering the cheapest season ticket at Cluj costs £25. Anyone who travelled to Sofia and paid £5 to watch the game (which again included £1.50 Chelsea tax) will understand my frustration. It’s not so much the cost in this case, but the principal fact that Chelsea appear to have little sway at the negotiating table … mind you looking at our recent dealings in the transfer market should any of us be surprised?

Those who embarked on ‘official travel packages’ through CFCs travel partner Thomas Cook will have paid £269 for a day trip. Day trips are ideal for those short on time or concerned about making their own travel arrangements but when you look at the comparatively low cost of the alternatives it puts everything into sharp perspective. Not only are Chelsea profiteering excessively, but the margins enjoyed by Thomas Cook must be quite exceptional … and guess which team you are inadvertently cross subsidising every time you fly with these aerial bandits?  That’s right, Rottenham Dropspur, the relegation strugglers from north London whose shirts they sponsor.

I knew for certain that I wasn’t the only Blues fan waiting with baited breath and fingers crossed to see which team would join Chelsea, Roma and Bordeaux in Group A when the Champions League draw had been made in Monaco a few weeks ago and I wasn’t to be left feeling dissatisfied.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m unappreciative of the fact that Mr Abramovich’s squillions have ensured that Chelsea no longer face the ignominy and uncertainty of having to qualify for Europe’s premier club competition or worse still have to compete in the UEFA Cup with the likes of lowly Sp*rs, and it’s not that I don’t enjoy the regular sorties to Barcelona, Valencia and Porto, but sometimes it’s nice to go somewhere different. Somewhere that you have never heard of, somewhere that once you’ve done a bit of research makes the mind boggle … somewhere like Cluj.

‘CFR Cluj of Romania. Where the Efan Ekoku is Cluj?’ I’d mused, as I proceeded to test the capabilities of several internet search engines following the draws conclusion. Not since Chelsea were drawn to play MSK Zilina a full five years ago had a Blues away European tie ignited such curiosity. That trip to Slovakia didn’t disappoint, only several hundred diehards made the journey to witness the first competitive match of the Abramovich era and I expected many of them would be journeying to Romania brimful with enthusiasm for what jolly jackanapes might lie ahead.

Cluj-Napoca, to give it its full title, is the third largest city in Romania, situated in the north-west of the country it is 200 miles from capital city Bucharest, and for those who like to try alternative routes, a similar distance from Budapest, the hub of my chosen route, and Belgrade.

Why Budapest? Well apart from the fact that it’s a beautiful city populated by beautiful women, and easyJet fly there on the cheap, it is also the home of a true-Blue by the name of Balazs Mate, president of the Hungarian branch of the Chelsea supporters club and a friend of legendary Magyar Blues fan Kalman Soos. Kal is a familiar figure at Chelsea, a likeable big burly bear of a man whose hilarious expletive riddled observations on football matters and life in general often have me wondering if his English teacher suffered with Tourette’s syndrome.

‘All you need to do is get to Budapest and I will take care of everything else’, Kal had advised me enthusiastically. It was an offer that myself, Tom Broderick, Sam Orsini and David Johnstone of cfcuk fanzine fame found hard to refuse and I’d all but forgotten my sleep-depriving early start as the plane touched down and we found ourselves bathed in warm Autumnal sunshine having left  London to a grimly fiendish rainy windswept day.

There is something wonderfully cathartic about watching Chelsea on their travels around Europe which is why I try and rinse as much enjoyment out of these short trips as possible. Travellers with Thomas Cook would have been herded prescriptively onto coaches at Cluj airport and ferried into town, we were met by Kal’s brother-in-law in a sporty blue Jaguar and driven to our accommodation, which had been provided free of charge by our generous host.

The consumption of alcohol in liver threatening quantities is a fundamental part of any Champions League expedition and what better way to prepare your body for the toxic shock it is about to experience than a visit to a health spa. Trust me, I’m not joking. The invigorating afternoon we spent at the Saint Gellert hotel spa on the banks of the River Danube readied me for the travails that lay ahead,  its thermal baths easing the pain in my creaking joints and several sessions in the scarily titled inhalatorium left me vowing to give up the gaspers for good.

‘You’ve changed Marco,’ I can hear you saying. ‘Visiting heath spa’s on footy trips? Behave yourself son.’ Yeah well of course that was only for a couple of hours, Kal had the serious entertainment laid on for later in the evening … a visit to Budapest’s premier non stop erotic dancing establishment the Eden Bar.

Everything on the house as a token of gratitude for helping the Hungarian Blues out by sourcing tickets at face price for the 40 odd members who would be attending the Cluj game.

The highlight of the night was the tardy arrival of Long Way Round Pete with a couple of accomplices who drink in the Rising Sun public house … the reason I know they drink in the Rising Sun is because his pals unfurled a fabulously embroidered flag proclaiming their allegiance to Chelsea and advertising their favourite drinker. What followed can only be described as ‘proper Chels’. Kal persuaded the DJ to download Blue Is The Colour and we were then treated to the sight of a bevy of horny Jack the Rippers slithering up and down shiny metal poles and gyrating on stage to our most hallowed tune. Surreal. (any readers wanting to check out the photographic evidence are welcome to add me as a friend on Facebook)

The next morning’s hangover was as predictably uncomfortable as the eight hour coach journey from Budapest to Cluj, but the memories of the night before lingered along with the smell of cheap perfume and stale ale. Cluj is the capital of the historical province of Transylvania. Ask the good citizens of Romania and Hungary about the region and they will wax lyrical about the scenic beauty of its Carpathian landscape, ask anyone who was on our coach and they will moan about the twisty winding roads and the rustic traffic calming effect of carts being pulled by donkeys and women leading cattle to market.

We arrived in Cluj with a couple of hours to spare and dined in Arcana, a restaurant patronised by the Cheeky Girls (the criminally untalented musical twins hail from the city and return often). Our waitress was flawlessly beautiful and attentive, though I did wonder if the roll-neck of the fitted sweater she was wearing concealed a two-pronged bite mark … you can’t be too careful around these parts. Dracula country.

From a footballing perspective, CFR Cluj are a bit of an enigma. With a team comprised of local players oddly augmented with a smattering of unknown Argentineans and Brazilians, CFR became the first club outside Bucharest to win the Romanian title for 17 years completing a fine season with victory in the Romanian Cup Final to give them an unprecedented league and cup double. Not bad for a club that was playing third tier football just six years ago. The start to this season had been less than impressive, and a run of four straight defeats had  seen head coach Ioan Andone sacked at the start of September to be replaced by his Italian assistant Maurizio Trombetta. They had however managed to beat AS Roma in Italy a couple of weeks previously and so couldn’t be written of as the no-hopers of Group A.

I was told that significant investment had been made to bring CFRs Constantin Radulescu Stadium up to UEFA standards, if that is the case then I wonder what condition it was in before the improvements had been made. The stadium and the wire meshed pen which housed the 1200 traveling Blues fans was redolent of Kenilworth Road, Luton circa 1985 and left me wondering if Stevie Wonder might have the UEFA official responsible for granting the necessary permit to the club.

The match itself was a shocker. I spent most of the time I wasn’t singing the fabulous new ode to Juliano Belletti, you know the one mated with Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes, apologizing to Balazs and the Hungarian Chelsea posse for the atrocious game of football we all had to endure. Fortunately they were just happy to be there, for many it was the first time they had been able to see the Blues live but it was still a shame that the team failed to live up to its billing.

The post-match lock-in was a palatable 30 minutes, and the coach journey back to Budapest silent save for the pig-like snoring of a stray unknown Chelsea fan that Kal had offered a lift to out of the goodness of his heart. Our flight back to London was on time-ish and we returned home jaded but happy.

On behalf of everyone in our small party I would like to take this opportunity to extend a big thank you to Kal for his generosity and hospitality and wish Balazs and the Hungarian Blues all the best.

Up the Chels!

Mark Worrall is the author of cult terrace classics ‘Over Land and Sea’ and ‘Blue Murder … Chelsea till I die’, his new book ‘One Man Went to Mow’ is out now. Copies are available to buy with a discount of 30% and free postage within the UK at http://www.overlandandsea.net/