09/11/19 Chelsea 2 Crystal Palace 0
Following the regrettable EUFA ban on Ajax supporters for the bonkers 4-4 Bonfire Night Champions League thriller 4 days earlier, it was reassuring to pass a sizeable amount of Crystal Palace fans making their way through the main gate for this fixture. In theory at least. The home seats at Stamford Bridge seem largely now to consist of creaky boned old soaks like me, alongide selfie obsessed tourists. The latter are generally happy to visit the club shop & relieve of it of some of its overpriced tat, eat the equally overpriced, desperately poor quality food & often largely ignore huge swathes of the actual football. These two disparate groups do not, it must be said, make for a lively atmosphere, & it is usually only the away fans who manage to occasonally crank the volume up to 11. However, along with their team the Palace faithful were a little off song today, given their reputation of being a noisy & passionate throwback to the days when top English grounds had proper fans, creating genuinely electric atmospheres. The Croydon Ultras who passed me going in were probably at their liveliest all afternoon at that very moment, 40 minutes or so from kick off. What a motley crew they were too, quite the skankiest away fans I’ve seen since Cardiff City last season, most of whom appeared to have been living in their latest team shirts for a decade non-stop even though the season was still in August. Palace were equally tatty looking, & left me, no lounge lizard himself, wondering whether South London is currently lacking shower & laundry facilities. Removing the word cunt from the English language would also have largely rendered them mute so all hail the word cunt, not always universally acclaimed in fairness, if only for ensuring the entire Fulham Road did not descend into total silence.
I am not having much luck with away fans at present, having run into the Man Utd fans leaving the ground following Marcus Rashford’s stunning free kick winner in the Carabao Cup 10 days previously. I can refute the oft held myth that none of their fans hail from Manchester, as there were plenty of feral Mancunian ratboys mixed in among a decent smattering of 2014 hipster beards. Their reaction to victory over a below par, under strength Chelsea team was massively over the top. In keeping with Harry Maguire’s celebration in front of the Matthew Harding stand at the final whistle, you could have been mistaken for thinking they had won the World Cup. My response to both was a retro, inner Michael Winner voice saying, inevitably, ‘CALM DOWN! IT’S ONLY THE CARABAO CUP.’ My retro, inner Michael Winner voice was sadly no match for one particular ratboy, accompanied by his equally repulsive female accomplice, whose physical presence & warm Mancunian banter I failed to shrug off for several hundred yards along the Fulham Road. Resistance seemed futile but I must politely, if belatedly, put the record straight. I am actually neither a rentboy or a cockney. Opinion may be divided on whether or not I am a cunt (that word again) though those that do concur would usually base it on more substantial evidence than my walking along a public street in the dark of night minding my own business. Given the female of their species can reproduce up to 5 times a year I do hope this lovely rodent couple are using contraception or Old Trafford will shortly need another 15,000 seats just to house their offspring. If they are anything to go by, either the gene pool in Manchester has declined since his death or former Factory Records boss Tony Wilson’s belief in Manchester as the centre of the universe was massively overstated. The general exuberance on & off the pitch over this Pyrrhic victory certainly indicates how far Man Utd have fallen in recent times.
I have fond memories of Crystal Palace from my very early football watching days, not least their propensity for wearing a series of extremely snazzy kits in the late ’60’s & throughout the following decade. My favourite was the first I ever saw them wear, a claret top with light blue pinstripes & gold collar, cuffs & club crest. They also had a fine goalkeeper, John Jackson, who later went on to play for Orient, & was one of many great keepers with redoubtable, now old fashioned British names who lit up my Saturday afternoons. Stand up Peter Grummitt, Les Green, Mike Kelly, Bryan King & Jim Herriot of Birmingham City, who inspired one aspiring author of veterinary novels to rename himself James Herriot for the purposes of his fiction writing career. Another one, Charlie Wright of Charlton, had a goalkeeping cap more akin to something old men who kept whippets might wear. With the exception of Calcutta born Kevin Keelan of Norwich City, who brought a touch of swarthy, Englebert Humperdinck style pizazz to the East Anglian outfit, they were a decidely unglamorous bunch, but I remember them all fondly, & they were all really good goalkeepers. Flamboyance should have been the middle name of mid ’70’s fedora wearing Palace manager Malcolm Allison, & even though he got them relegated twice in successive seasons he is still fondly remembered for bringing in players of verve & dash, including Chelsea hero Charlie Cooke, who flopped & then returned to Stamford Bridge for peanuts, rediscovered his form & won an international recall. They also had Swindon’s 1969 League Cup winning hero Don Rogers, who was also brilliant, & also had a magnificent moustache. Another fantastic winger, Peter Taylor, whose goalscoring debut I witnessed at Oxford, later made the mistake of going to Spurs, & sustained a series of injuries which led to premature retirement from professional football, but was still able to run games without breaking sweat at Dartford & Enfield after that, witnessed by my brother-in-law, who played against him & insists he was the finest player he ever came up against, impossible to win the ball off even with by then severely reduced mobility. The current team have done well to consolidate their position in the Premier League but have little of the charm of teams of old. In fairness my antipathy towards Crystal Palace started on a rainy night at Selhurst Park in January 1993. It was bad enough losing to a below strength Palace team & having our League Cup dreams dashed. Yes, we dreamed about winning the League Cup, ANY cup, in 1993. It was bad enough that a waterlogged pitch led to an underhit Frank Sinclair back pass being swept just over the muddy goal line at our end by future Wales boss Chris Coleman. It was even worse when Steve Clarke finished more emphatically at the same end in the second half, only for the mud to be so thick by that point that having passed under Nigel Martyn’s body the ball stuck steadfastly to the goal line & did not lead to the goal that it would have been on 999 times out of a thousand. The tin lid sealed on the top of this farrago of shite was the half time break, as the rain hammered down ever harder on the open terrace failing to shelter us, when the Palace mascot, predictably an Eagle, sauntered past us & reminded us, pointedly & provocatively with his dopey Eagle mascot fingers, that the score was at that point 2-1. Two fingers raised with the left dopey Eagle hand, a middle dopey Eagle finger with the right. A man in an Eagle suit taking the piss as our League Cup dreams were literally drowning in the misery of a South London monsoon. If there had not been a fence up he would have got lynched & I would have applauded louder than I had Andy Townsend’s earlier, fantastic first half goal. I have hated Crystal Palace & club mascots ever since. Including Stamford the bloody Lion, whose outfit was stolen a decade or so later, the thief attempting, sadly unsuccessfully, to exort a ransom fee for it before eventually it was returned safely. If you know who that man was, buy him a drink every day for the rest of his life. I will gladly foot the bill.
The negative approach of Crystal Palace boss Roy Hodgson this time was difficult to fathom. Thay have already won at Old Trafford & drawn at The Emirates, & last season had a famous victory at the home of eventual champions Man City, a victory sealed in spectacular fashion, with one truly remarkable goal by Andros Townsend. I first saw Townsend play for Orient at Brentford around 10 years ago, during a loan spell from Spurs. He looked a great prospect then, but I can honestly say he was so invisible for the first half of this game that I genuinely forgot he was out there. Fun though this season has proved so far watching Frank Lampard use the younger players at his disposal to such impressive effect, the fact remains that this Chelsea team leaks goals as readily as lies tumble from the mouth of Boris Johnson, so Hodgson’s excessive caution was a bad call. This was a poor day for Palace & especially their star player Wilfred Zaha, thwarted throughout by 19 year old Reece James, who followed up his match saving goal against Ajax in the week with a performance of poise & maturity. Zaha is the sort of flair player you want to excel against anybody but your own team, & a full flowering of his potential has been on the verge of emerging in the past few seasons. An earlier move to Man Utd probably just came too soon, but by last season his importance to the Palace cause was underlined by his becoming the most fouled player on the Premier League. Unlike the divine Eden Hazard, who largely restricted himself to the occasional pounding of his fists against the turf, as yet another musclebound mediocrity went unpunished having clogged him to the floor, Zaha has wailed long & hard in the press about a lack of protection from referees. He wailed long & hard throughout this game to referee & fellow narcissist Mike Dean about a series of perceived injustices, largely linked to Reece James having the temerity to repeatedly rob him of the ball, & on occasions his dignity. Eventually, he threw himself theatrically to the floor near my seat in the West Stand. Dean, denied much opportunity in this largely tepid affair to indulge his favourite pastime, namely making himself the centre of attention, ludicrously awarded Palace a free kick in a dangerous area of the pitch. Zaha turned to us Chelsea fans & flashed a cheesy, provocative, ‘look what I got away with there’ grin. Presumably the camera angles for the free kick were favourable for Dean’s sumptuous profile. Well done Mike, we had almost forgotten you were here. We’ve remembered now, okay, it’s all about you, right? Fortunately, the free kick was taken by Luko Milvojevic, Zaha’s main rival as whinger in chief, who floated the ball straight out for a goal kick. Luko also takes the Palace penalties, one assumes as a tactic by Roy Hodgson to remind him that he can occasionally make contact with the ball rather than the skin & bone of opposition players. So negligible is his footballing contribution to this match that he need not really have changed into his kit. Hodgson praises his team after the match, which is remarkable. If they play like this every week I would rather use my tongue to remove broken glass from the anal cavity of Piers Morgan than watch Crystal Palace more than once a season. No wonder so many of those Palace Ultras had looked like they hadn’t changed clothes or washed for days. They are probably all clinically depressed.
At least Gary Cahill emerged with some credit from the afternoon for the visitors, giving & receiving due credit to & from both sets of supporters respectively, a rare feat indeed. A superb block had prevented Chelsea from taking a first half lead late in the first half, reminding Palace fans what an asset they have gained & a churlish & not insubstantial section of Chelsea fans of the considerable defensive ability of a man too often berated in his last couple of years at Stamford Bridge. His fractious relationship with the unpopular Maurizio Sarri last year had won him back some brownie points prior to his departure at the end of last season, & he had been sent off with a deservedly warm & prolonged display of affection after the last home game of the season against Watford. Sarri had even given him a few minutes on the pitch that day, but spurned a prime opportunity shortly afterwards to give one of the most prolific medal collectors in Chelsea history the same pleasure in Baku, with Chelsea 4-1 up & coasting to victory in the Europa League final against Arsenal. Many thought the conduct towards our club captain by the Neapolitan Fag Ash Lil was shabby & unbecoming throughout last season, but the online abuse he had received from supposed Chelsea fans before that had also been unsavoury & completely unjustified. In seven years with Chelsea he won Two Premier Leagues, Two FA Cups, Two Europa Leagues, one Carling Cup & the small matter of a Champions League winner’s medal, earned with himself & David Luiz both playing with barely one good leg between them, both climbing off the treatment table with John Terry having been ruled out through suspension. Not bad for a ‘donkey’ eh? When the Matthew Harding end rose to acclaim him at the beginning of the second half he responded with a bizarre, apologetic handclap which started below the genitals, as if not wanting to annoy supporters of his current employers. At the end of the game, won deservedly by Chelsea with another goal from Tammy Abraham, & the first at the Bridge for the rapidly emerging Christian Pulisic, Cahill made a point of applauding the Palace fans first before taking a final bow from the blue sides of the ground. A touch of class is our Gaz.
For Mr Zaha however, the afternoon never got better than winning a free kick by cheating. On leaving the stadium by car he was reminded, probably unnecessarily, by one (admittedly irritating) onlooker that he had been in Reece James’ pocket for the past hour and a half. ‘You’re mum’s in my fucking pocket’ was the response from a disembodied voice in the backseat, generally thought to be that of the beleaguered winger himself. Keep it classy Wilf. Zaha is linked to Chelsea regularly but on the evidence of this performance, on & off the pitch, the money would best be spent elsewhere. When he rolls up at Stamford Bridge in Chelsea colours next year this will, of course, all be forgotten by yours truly with the standard, heightened level of hypocrisy unique to partisan football supporters.
Thwarted here in their usual desire to entertain as consistently as often as they would like, Frank Lampard’s bold new team still appear to be shaping up nicely. The atmosphere in the ground is still sadly funereal & the 2019 competition to see who can dig their knees into the back of my seat continues unabated. Often it’s a small child with restless, flailing legs & I can make allowances for that. Today it was an oblivious, self centred man comfortably old enough to know better & eventually I turned round to remonstrate with him, only to be totally fazed by his creepily sinister, Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates in ‘Psycho’ half smile. I’ve hardly slept since, & am definitely thinking twice before having a shower. Oh my, perhaps I’m a Crystal Palace fan in the making after all.
Does anyone have an address for Piers Morgan?