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CHELSEA AWAY 4-1-05
Written by Andy 'Only here for the first three minutes' Morgan, Photos by Andy Craig
So the New Year and January, the monthly equivalent of a Monday as the Wiz so eloquently described it, brought us to Stamford Bridge for the second time in nine months. And indeed this was a special visit as it was for the corresponding fixture last season that some of us decided we would get together and share our Boro love. Twelve trips in and what a sticky mess it has been. But in the end it was definitely worth it. Apart from maybe that dismal defeat at Tottenham.
So boarding a tube to Farringdon for a six o'clock meeting with the Wiz, the comforting feelings of relived memories were whirling in my mind. Along with the decidedly sick feeling of an impending mauling at the hands of the sickly rich club that had suddenly become everyone's favourite bette noir. But it wasn't that I didn't think we could give them a game. It was just that without a full-strength team and after our abysmal performance against Man Utd I thought our chances were slim, particularly due to our lack of Boateng in midfield. Added to this was the knowledge of Chelsea's four goal a game average since November and I feared the worst. As it turned out, I wasn't the only one.
It was odd travelling north from Vauxhall to Farringdon, watching all the Chelsea and Boro fans going the opposite way. But I had agreed to meet Wiz and Andy in North London and, when I emerged from the tube and found neither of them there, I started to get concerned. What perpetuated this was the abysmal weather, about as abysmal as our prospects of getting anything from the tie, and as I looked around getting increasingly soaked I thought about my stupidity of paying forty pounds to watch us lose. But hey, I thought, it would be an experience. Although not necessarily a pleasant one. After all no one likes to see his or her team lose, whether it is to Chelsea or to Oldham.
Then my phone rang. Voicemail. The Wiz was in a pub across the road, the Castle. Not a bad pub, nice wooden finish and the ales there are of the highest quality. Oh and they have Carling, which somewhat bucked that trend. But then that's not ale anyway so I'll shut up. A brief chat about our chances ended in further pessimism as we all recalled the Riverside performance of a couple of days back when we did not register one shot on target and allowed Man Utd to tear through our midfield on too many occasions. And they were weakened themselves that day. Chelsea were practically full-strength and scoring goals for fun. We feared the worst. But then we expected it. And when you're in that mindset if the unlikely does happen it makes you feel even better, whilst in the converse scenario, the failure doesn't hurt as much. So we decided to adopt that policy, not only in the pub but also on the tube on the way to the ground, loudly proclaiming our view that the Boro are drastically inferior to Chelsea. Whether everyone else thought it was tongue in cheek or not I didn't know. I didn't really care.
Andy turned up twenty minutes later and after the quick downing of pints and a trip to KFC (their barbecue stacker burger is fucking gorgeous by the way, highly recommended) we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway, the ironic home of Chelsea. The tube trip was largely uneventful, one of those ones which goes through long dark tunnels and stops at a variety of lit places where people can get on and off the train and generally shove you out of the way.
This level of comforting malaise continued until we got to Notting Hill Gate when we needed to change from the exciting Circle line to the equally exciting District line. It was during our wait for said District line train that the Wiz's eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning having just received the 'My Little Barbie Anorexia Kit with Bulimic Ken'. For he had spotted the 'old-fashioned journeyman pro, big time gambler and last (maybe) of the great characters' of football Steve Claridge, who for some reason was wearing a Brighton and Hove Albion training kit when he is currently playing for Brentford. Meanwhile contrary to the Wiz's swooning, my Brentford supporting mate describes Claridge as a 'useless git', 'one of Martin Allan's worst signings' and an 'old bastard [who] is way too slow and doesn't have a hope in hell of getting anywhere near the ball'. So make your own minds up on that one. Yet for Wiz, despite his scoring Leicester City's winning goal in the 1997 League Cup final replay against us, Claridge is one of the best footballer's of recent times and his face was a picture when he realised he was standing so close to one of his heroes. This was slightly curtailed a couple of seconds later however when he moved further down the platform, a move probably instigated not only by his agent but our blazon talking of his gambling addiction in a rather unsubtle manner.
The rest of the journey was largely uneventful as the Chelsea fans increasingly started to pile on to the train as we edged nearer the ground. Eventually we got out of the tube and noting the time, decided a beer in the ground would be the best calling so we ambled our way towards the Bridge, past the toe-curlingly twee 'Chelsea Village' with a load of Chelsea fans. There was hardly a Boro fan in sight.
After talking to Rob about our chances (he thought they were equally grim) we made our way into the ground, or more accurately that random concourse thing that away fans have to walk halfway down, battling through a host of home supporters in order to get to their seats. We bought pints of overpriced Budweiser and chatted to a few Boro fans who came up to say hello, including a few who said they recognised me through my ubiquity at away games. It took me a while to place their faces but I may have met them at some point. Maybe.
Now I've always thought this concourse a bit weird, particularly with Chelsea's record of hooliganism, as there is no segregation between the home and away supporters. Furthermore whilst drinking you hardly feel like you are in the ground, more a long wind tunnel filled of equally vacuous Chelsea fans looking forward to another Russian bought win. And indeed why can't you get vodka at the Bridge, surely that's the next logical step but I searched in vain for it. Indeed Budweiser, arguably a symbol of America, is ironic for a man who made his money through the collapse of Communism fifteen years ago. And that's the politics lesson for today kids, please read chapters 5 and 6 for next week. You will be tested.
Into the ground and seeing that our seats were way too far back for us to get a half decent view, we decided to move to the multitude of empty seats that befits Premier league stupidity in putting an away game three hundred miles from home on a work night. The teams warmed up and after a perfectly observed and especially poignant minute's silence for the victims of the Asian tsunami, the match began.
We put up a good showing in the first, erm, three minutes, coming out of the blocks quickly and having a few half chances on their goal. Normal service was resumed however on around six minutes and we suddenly realised just how difficult this evening could be. Shots rained in from all over the pitch, Chelsea acknowledging my fear by tearing through our weakened midfield for fun. It was just a matter of time before the breakthrough came and God knows what damage they could have done to us once they had the lead and we had to chase the game. Yet what was especially worrying was that that breakthrough came on the fifteenth minute. It was a nice move through our impotent midfield and as Drogba received possession some twenty-five yards out I felt there was little real danger as he is crap. How wrong I was. Superb control to win the header from Southgate in the first place and then he skinned him and launched a low hard shot into the bottom left corner. One nil. The Chelsea fans went delirious and our hearts sank. We all knew they'd score but we all hoped it wouldn't be this early. And after the first fifteen minutes we now all definitely feared the worse. And this was enhanced two minutes later when Drogba was up again for a free header to convert Duff's free kick with Schwarzer stranded. Two nil down after only seventeen minutes. This could be our worse defeat of the season. And comfortably Chelsea's best victory and they'd been winning matches by the odd goal margin or four. Pessimism reigned supreme.
The Chelsea fans started making some noise (for the first time that afternoon- it's so easy to make noise when you're winning, aye?) although most of it was directed at Tiago for some reason. Indeed there was very little anti-Boro rhetoric coming from them at all, beyond 'Jimmy, what's the score, Jimmy Jimmy, what's the score?' which goes to show how little on their radar we actually feature. It also further emphasised to me how far we have to still go to even be a Champions League side nevermind serious title contenders.
Approaching half time and we realised that it was to be the Boro fans that would be (understandably) subdued, with a mere handful of kids down the front accompanying us with any form of chanting whatsoever. I fully understand this but come on guys, the team needed us, and we might as well have made some noise. If not for support then for image, so we wouldn't get the inevitable stick on certain messageboards the next day from those numpties who believe the success of the club should be gauged by its atmosphere and God forbid its attendances. Particularly as after conceding those two goals we had started to hold our own somewhat, although this might have been because Chelsea were now cruising.
The rest of the half was played in a determined yet slightly degrading fashion, a fashion that befits the domination of one side over another. We huffed and puffed but didn't even produce a light breeze to trouble Petr Cech in goal and as our frustration increased what was called for was light relief. We got it in the unlikeliest of situations (no, not a Joe Pasquale concert) but from the man in front of us, who turned around and immediately recognised the Wiz. This was scary, not only for the man but because we had randomly chosen to sit here out of all the empty seats we could have chosen. As it turned it out, it would be my first meeting with messageboard favourite Harry Holgate and after a brief introduction and pleasant chat, the half time whistle blew and we all retired to the wind tunnel for another pint of American filth. That was, of course, after hearing some interesting anti-Chelsea songs in the toilet and having someone's cigarette stubbed out on my hand. Now that is my definition of good halftime entertainment, stuff this mascot lark.
The second half continued in much the same vein as the first. Duff hit the crossbar in one of Chelsea's rare attacks in the latter half but you felt they were playing in first or second gear. As for ourselves, we played as well as we could but did very little, looking creatively bereft and lacking in ideas. Indeed this has been a worry in recent weeks as I can't help but feel our performances have somewhat deteriorated, interestingly in line with Hasselbaink's and Viduka's goal scoring. We look half the team we once were and I was hoping for more of a fight, more of anything from our side. But maybe it was down to the injuries, maybe the fear of the Chelsea machine. Either way we tried but looked inept, another reason why I don't think fourth spot this season will be a benefit to us in the long term.
There's little else to say about the match. The Chelsea fans were buzzing, not only through their own performance but the fact that Man Utd were still drawing against Spurs and Arsenal were one nil down at home to Manchester City (the cheer that got was arguably louder than that for Drogba's goals). Thus there was little opportunity to goad the home following although, on Freddie Ljungberg's equaliser I did start signing 'There's only one Freddie Ljungberg' which did start to take off in the Boro crowd. Eventually. Equally the Wiz's inspired chant on the seventy-seventh minute of 'You haven't scored in an hour' received a good reception as we watched the match dribble out to a pathetic end. But we had to take it in good humour, after all most of us were expecting a worse defeat than the one we got, particularly after seventeen minutes.
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