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?
The longest ever footballer’s goodbye letter to us supporters was a touch of class, but, fond farewells aside, seeing Eden Hazard destroy Real Madrid’s rivals with his brilliance next season will still be torture for Chelsea fans. Like a eunuch watching Pornhub.
I don’t use a camera during a match. Strangely I go to watch the game. I would happily go in early to see Eden Hazard warm up though. The oldest fanboy in captivity!
May 9, 2019 – A last farewell to fans in the Matthew Harding Stand, having scored the winning penalty against Eintracht Frankfurt with his last kick of a football as a Chelsea player at Stamford Bridge, securing a place in a European final as a consequence. Some player. Missing him already.
Until yesterday’s well deserved Easter Sunday victory Spurs had not won at Stamford Bridge since February 1990, when one of these two women was still Prime Minister & the other was No 1 in something we once called the Hit Parade. ‘Nothing Compares 2 U? Kojak does!’ to quote another great 90’s feminist icon, the gorgeous & seductive Pauline Calf. Chelsea fans have procreated & seen those children through university in the meantime. Mortgages have been taken out & paid off. The late Amy Winehouse was 6 years old when Gary Lineker scored a late winner that day. She left us as the latest of the unwanted 27 club in 2011, itself now a remarkable seven years ago. Lineker himself is pushing 60 now. It has been a proud record, allied to the fact that Chelsea also went 20 years unbeaten in league games at White Hart Lane between 1987 & 2007. Its ending is undoubtedly painful, & verily multiple Tottenham cocks are already crowing. Social media is ablaze with the preening self-satisfaction always associated with supporters of this team, currently in its pomp, riding high in, er, 4th place in the table, one position above one of the poorest Chelsea teams for a decade or more. This morning we have also been treated to a picture of a man in full Spurs kit, pristine white shorts, socks pulled up to their fullest extent & that horrible shirt (bearing the name of the repugnant Vertonghen on its back) swaggering into his local LIDL, hands laden with wallet, car keys & phone because he has no pockets & has forgotten that no self-respecting adult walks around dressed in the style of an 8-year-old boy. The bemused look on the face of the woman opposite pushing a shopping trolley as he strolls manfully towards the ‘Buy 1 Get 1 Free’ confectionary speaks volumes. If he had been around on the first Easter Monday, after the resurrection of Jesus, you suspect the Good Lord would have taken one look at him & asked to be nailed back to the cross. Spurs have been a very good side for several years, but have won diddly squat since 2008. God help us all when it happens. Another roll call of Chelsea’s numerous triumphs & trophies since 1990 seems brash & unnecessary here. Suffice to say that I worried about this record falling when missing the 1994 match due to a stocktake at work. A two goal deficit was reversed & the unfairly overlooked Mark Stein slammed in a last-minute penalty for a dramatic 4-3 win. A point was rescued the following year by a Dennis Wise diving header from a pinpoint cross from, irony of ironies, former Spurs great Glenn Hoddle. In 2000 a jet lagged George Weah clambered off the subs bench for his début & scored an undeserved late winner. There have been plenty of splendidly memorable & emphatic victories but the fact that we were fearful of the record going several times during its first ten years indicates just how remarkable its surviving deep into a third decade has been. Enjoy your win Spurs fans, well done for your generous applause for Ray Wilkins before the match, & if you ever pull off anything of similar significance to this extraordinary 28 year saga then your current smugness may be belatedly vindicated. Not that I’ll be around to acknowledge it, partly because I’ll be dead, but more pertinently because it’s never going to happen. And don’t forget Mr Vertonghen below. He’s one of your own too. Bless him.
Supermarket Sweeper? Father forgive him for he knows not what he does. With thanks & apologies to Gate 17 Publications supremo Mark Worrall for the steal from his brilliant Twitter post here.
Congratulations to Chelsea striker Eni Aluko, whose England career was ruined & personal integrity put under intense media scrutiny after allegations about her ex England coach Mark Sampson became public knowledge. Finally, after two FA led inquiries concluded there was no case to answer for Sampson, she has been vindicated. Both Eni & Chelsea colleague Drew Spence have received a long overdue apology for the dismissive response to allegations of offensive comments made to & about them.
The FA needs to take a long, hard look at itself over this one. I doubt it will, given its long history of generally overpowering arrogance, corruption & breathtaking hypocrisy. The case is fascinating because FA kangaroo courts are famous within football. Players & managers facing disciplinary charges are inevitably found guilty. Members of the Monmouth Rebellion had more chance of being cleared by Judge Jeffreys than a footballer generally has at a standard FA tribunal. All the more despicable then that Aluko, an innocent party here, had to endure months of mud-slinging while two successive FA led inquiries falsely exonerated their employee & members of his coaching staff, one of whom apparently once spoke to the Nigerian born striker in a mock Caribbean accent. It is 2017 by the way. God preserve us.
Your heart sinks to think this crass nonsense lingers on from my youth, where it was commonplace. Even then, it seemed to be largely the preserve of generations before my own, the sort of nitwits that either thought Alf Garnett was a political visionary rather than a comic grotesque, or, as appears the case here, that this kind of behaviour merely represented heavy-handed ‘Love Thy Neighbour’ style banter.
At school 40 years ago there were a couple of boys on schoolboy forms with Southampton. One, Colin, got disenchanted with the prospect of making football a career quite quickly, & told me of the casual racism of senior players at the club towards one of the apprentices, a lad called Tony Sealy. He went on to have a decent & lengthy journeyman career, stopping off after Southampton at QPR, Crystal Palace & Leicester among others. Suffice to say that the first teamers he listed were household names. All were internationals. Apparently, Sealy was routinely called Kunta Kinte after the main character, a slave, in Alex Haley’s ‘Roots’ , then a popular TV series. If it upset a 15-year-old white boy to see grown men conduct themselves in this way God alone knows what Tony Sealy must have thought, although doubtless it helped prepare him for sustained barrages of abuse from terrace cretins over the following decade. If a player blows the whistle on examples of this stupidity persisting now, then they surely deserve a more sympathetic & compassionate response from the authorities than Eni Aluko has received?
Almost as much to blame as the FA are certain sections of our beloved media, not to mention former England goalkeeper David James, whose idiotic tweet blasting Aluko & demeaning her personally & professionally has long been deleted. Brave boy the recently bankrupted Mr James, whose head would appear to be as empty as his piggy bank. We have also had to endure the unedifying spectacle of relentless self publicist & Murdoch lickspittle Matthew Syed rushing to defend Mr Sampson, assuring us we should not assume someone is a racist based on a few ill-chosen words. Hanging out with Robbie Savage & Andrew Flintoff (the sporting world’s very own ‘Dumb & Dumber’) has clearly dulled the slimy ex wiff waff choker’s memory & intellectual capacities somewhat. He will happily assume the worst of anyone at Chelsea & fit the evidence around it to prove his jaundiced case, rabidly hanging John Terry’s dirty linen out behind the Murdoch paywalls for years, not to mention fanning the flames of Chelsea hate happily on Twitter. Now he thinks social media has dealt a cruelly unfair hand to Mr Sampson. If only everyone else would just shut up & let Matthew Syed tell them what has happened. A more cynical person than myself might wonder if Syed might leap as voraciously to Sampson’s defence were he a Chelsea coach. Or dismiss the evidence presented by the players were the victims from the Arsenal rather than Chelsea Ladies team. Happily I am not that cynical. Dear old Matthew. The man who put the pong in ping-pong.
In 2012 Terry was famously cleared of a charge of racial abuse in a court of law. The evidence against Terry was limited to YouTube footage, which clearly failed to undermine his case that he HAD used abusive language towards opponent Anton Ferdinand (which had been reciprocated) but not in the context presented by the prosecution. It was an ugly & unpleasant incident which did nobody any favours, not least John Terry, or indeed football itself. Having been cleared in court Terry was swiftly found guilty by the same authority which has been furiously defending Sampson & belittling Aluko. Rumour has it that Stephen Fry reprised his role of General Melchett at the Terry hearing, donning a black cap,summoning a firing squad & also finding the accused guilty of murdering his pigeon in the trenches during World War 1. The Independent, edited by a Spurs supporter, gleefully led with a ‘Captain Leader Racist’ headline the following day. All off the back of an inquiry which had no more evidence than that presented in court. Terry was simply hung out to dry. Contrast this with Sampson cowering under FA petticoats for months, clutching Greg Clarke’s glib 14 word email dismissal of Aluko’s case for comfort. Lest I be accused of FA/Syed style hypocrisy I would simply say that we have never heard any intimation from the many black players that John Terry has played alongside that he has betrayed racist beliefs. Equally, he cooperated with the authorities & freely admitted using obscenities in the heat of the moment, not engaging in off the cuff, insidious banter away from a high-octane footballing encounter. Nobody else came forward with compelling evidence, nor indeed ANY evidence, to contradict his own version of what happened at Loftus Road that day. Sampson has flatly denied all allegations about himself from day one.
As to whether Mark Sampson is a racist, how the hell should I know? It is likely he is prone to the same sort of laddish, locker room buffoonery that often prompts stupidity among sportsmen, & that John Terry has also fallen prey to far too many times during his career. Consequently, Sampson’s behaviour has likely been more idiotic & insanely insensitive than malicious, a point repeatedly made by Eni Aluko herself throughout this sorry saga. Football is a world where it is possible to stay a schoolboy until middle age, possibly even longer if your name is Jose Mourinho. What the Aluko case proves is that it should no longer be a world governed by an authority picking & choosing when to clamp down on allegations of racism depending on how it makes them look. Nor do we need agenda driven hacks & trolls choosing sides seemingly dependent on whether the alleged perpetrators or victims are wearing Chelsea blue or opposition colours.
Hopefully, Eni Aluko can return to the England fold & add to her 102 caps. Count them David James, looks like she CAN play a bit! We should all raise a glass to her anyway as she has made one invaluable, emphatic point on the issue of racism that players, coaches, administrators & fans alike should all take some time to absorb.
It really is time we all grew up.
There was so much to relish during the wonderful win in the Wanda Metropolitana this week, obvious highlights being Hazard’s long overdue emergence as a player of true greatness, Morata’s lovely headed equalizer & the brilliant last gasp winner that epitomized the joyous harmony & fluency that ran through the team’s performance the entire match. All life affirming & tremendous stuff.
For me it was capped off beautifully by the presence of anti Chelsea sourpusses Steven Gerrard & Rio Ferdinand in the BT studios. It is of course traditional for both Sky & BT to fill their punditry seats with the expanding buttocks of ex pros with no love for Chelsea, nor indeed anyone but Liverpool, Man Utd or Arsenal, but BT really pushed the boat out here, presumably because having finally found a former Blue to accompany them, in the shape of the living legend that is Sir Frank Lampard, they felt the need to tilt the balance firmly back in favour of the usual carping & sneering at the boys from the Bridge by sitting him next to two men who both have agendas against Chelsea that are well-known, deep-rooted & long term.
By full-time, however, they were left with no choice but to suck it up in front of the watching millions & give Chelsea props for a truly scintillating win. At least presenter & crisp thief Gary Lineker, the one time Spurs striker & full-time narcissist, had the grace to smile & pretend he was happy about it, & he genuinely seemed to have enjoyed the match. Frank remained remarkably restrained, but the fun for him, like all Chelsea fans, had been in watching the previous 90 minutes of effervescent splendour. It was excruciating watching the other two though. All the right platitudes were duly rolled out, but it clearly hurt. Gerrard seemed especially pained at having to give Chelsea any credit, appearing for all the world that as the words of praise were extracted from his traditionally joyless face he was fighting a severe dental abscess. He couldn’t have looked less happy if Lineker had ordered him to lick out the contents of Gary Glitter’s slop bucket.
A great end to a fantastic night.
In the early days of his extraordinary, magnificent Chelsea career there was a song about John Terry to the tune of Adam & The Ants ‘Prince Charming’ minus the original line ‘ridicule is nothing to be scared of.’ With the benefit of hindsight it should have been kept in. For when the collective braying scorn & rage of the rag bag of sneering pseuds, cynics, liars & hypocrites who feast on every setback & failing of the finest centre half of his generation finally abates, we will still be able to reflect on endless memories of his footballing brilliance.
We are all aware of his many on field achievements & the esteem he is held in at the club for his support for, & mentoring of, players throughout the staff. There is a fabulous blog by former youth player Sam Tillen on the subject. Equally we are aware of his (admittedly not insubstantial) rap sheet. But how about the lives of some of the more vociferous JT/Chelsea haters & critics? An eclectic mix they make too, ranging from Prime Ministers to internet trolls all manipulated expertly from the movers & shakers within all sections of the modern media.
Come hither David Cameron, expressing his delight at JT being suspended from the Champions League Final in 2012.’He’s done some bad things’ he said to Angela Merkel. And doubtless he has, although unlike our Dave he hasn’t ever belonged to a club whose members smashed up restaurants, burned £50 notes in front of tramps & allegedly inserted their Old Etonian old chaps into the mouths of dead pigs. John Terry has had a life of wealth & privilege thrust upon him by virtue of his enormous talent rather than an accident of birth & this really sticks in the craw of so many of his detractors, brought up to consider themselves superior to the rest of us regardless of their own, frequently appalling, behaviour.
Some of our leading politicians have cause to thank him though. Step forward Tony Blair, sneaking into the Iraq inquiry in 2010 whilst JT’s alleged relationship with an ex colleague’s ex- girlfriend detained the attentions of our flawless media. Meanwhile, London’s then Mayor & our current Foreign Secretary, who has fathered a child outside of his marriage, & impregnated another woman on two occasions, was busy telling us that his private life was nobody’s business but his own. Up to a point I am inclined to agree with him but it seems odd that a footballer has an apparent duty to prevent his genitals from wandering & be a role model rather than those who govern our lives. JT lost the England captaincy over that spurious piece of tittle-tattle, whilst the next footballer engulfed in a lurid, super-injunction sex scandal became captain of the British Olympic team after the fact, presented as the ideal figure to mentor the younger players in that team. The fact he played for media darlings Manchester United is pure coincidence of course.
At the other end of the food chain from our unimpeachable leaders are the faceless spooks hiding at the end of every online John Terry article, dispensing their own distinctive brand of malignancy. You know the sort, all hiding behind names like ‘Chelski Oil Est.2003’ & ‘Sir Alex 13 Times’. Not only do you suspect they have never darkened the doors of their apparently ‘beloved’ Old Trafford or Anfield or Emirates, it seems probable they haven’t actually left the house since their corner shop stopped selling Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown videos & Linda Lusardi calendars. The internet came along at a perfect time for them, just as ITV cancelled ‘Baywatch’ & left them looking for something else to do with their right hands on Saturday teatimes. As a sad, single man myself I understand their pain but don’t respect the response. It’s the media leeches that fuel these people’s prejudices that are the real problem.
These include the slimy slap head mafia. Matt Dickinson & the ludicrous Duncan Castles are to the fore here, but both are outshone by the perennially insidious Matthew Syed. Matthew is apparently an expert on leadership with an impeccable moral compass, baffled by the loyalty of Chelsea fans to both John Terry & indeed to the club itself, being a fierce critic of the club’s owner & the role he played in the post Glasnost reshaping of the old Soviet Union. It is okay for Syed to shamelessly continue to take the Murdoch shilling by writing for ‘The Times’ of course. After all, this man has only owned newspapers that have continuously ruined lives by spreading malicious lies about innocent people for decades, gloried in the slaughter of Argentinian conscripts in the Falkland war, hacked into the phone of a dead schoolgirl & demeaned both the victims & survivors of the Hillsborough disaster. So Chelsea fans should rebel against JT & Abramovich, examine their consciences & walk away from Stamford Bridge forever, many of them having had an emotional commitment to the place since they were small children, but Syed’s commitment to earning a dollar holds no such constraints. He can address multi-national corporations (Goldman Sachs are a LOVELY company aren’t they?) with his motivational speeches, safe in the knowledge that they are all squeaky clean & entirely free of corruption. He can stand for Parliament under the banner of New Labour, the brainchild of a leader we now know is a serial liar & probable war criminal. He needn’t apologise for any of this because he is cleverer & better than us, and not remotely an oily, hypocritical toad who wouldn’t know a scruple if it boned him up the arse. Let’s face it we are all compromised by the stranglehold the reptilian Murdoch has had on modern football but the gall of Syed is truly breathtaking. Karma has apparently intervened anyway, as he is now reduced to doing a podcast with fellow Terry critics Robbie Savage, the uber-cretin of modern punditry, & Andrew Flintoff, the worst England captain in Ashes history, a man whose own conduct has not always stood up to too much scrutiny. I haven’t ever listened to it. Frankly I would rather pour vomit in my ear.
On Twitter we have the little Bullingdon club of minor celebrity, its chief enforcers being Alan Davies & the writer, broadcaster & bellend Danny Baker. Davies is a vociferous Chelsea hater when he isn’t biting tramp’s ears after a drinking binge (most of us make do with a bag of chips or a kebab Al) or cyber bullying people who think his mate Stephen Fry is a bit boring, or telling Liverpool fans that they should ‘get over’ Hillsborough & that their team’s refusal to play on the date of its anniversary gets on his tits. What a charmer. Baker’s obsessive Chelsea hatred has long crossed the borders of the truly pathetic, & examples of it would fill a very large & dull book. Many Chelsea fans backed his club Millwall’s campaign to stay at the New Den. Our Dan tells us he hopes Abramovich sells up & Chelsea ‘fuck off to Turkey.’ When Leicester won the league he hailed the blow against the fat cats & asked ‘can we have our ball back now?’ Our ball Mr Baker? With your Murdoch newspaper columns, radio stint under the leadership of the disgusting Kelvin Mackenzie & numerous tacky book, video & DVD cash ins (the videos outing this bumptious wazzock as the original full kit wanker by the way) we might suggest it has long ceased to be your job to claim to represent the ordinary fan. And if you are so concerned about the dominant role of the fat cats why do you whine like a 5-year old when Sky show Crystal Place v Everton and not Liverpool v Man Utd? On a personal note Mr Baker was diagnosed with cancer at the same time as my father. Thankfully he survived, unlike my father, only to more than once publicly wish this most horrible of illnesses on fellow human beings , the first time less than a year later during the 2011 London riots. This led to fellow cancer survivor John Hartson describing him as ‘a twat of a man.’ Seems about right. Baker never apologised for his despicable comments & we can only imagine the furore if John Terry himself had made them. Vile & classless anyone?
Quick off the mark to scorn JT’s acquittal after the unpleasant Anton Ferdinand escapade was the delightful Robbie Fowler. We will probably never know the truth regarding the context of what was said in that mutually abusive exchange of views during an ugly, heated West London derby. We do know that the ferrety Liverpool striker openly showered Graeme Le Saux with homophobic abuse at Stamford Bridge in 1999, accompanied with a lengthy, provocative wiggling of his already expanding (& deeply unappetizing) Scouse arse at our happily married full back. We also know that such antics have empowered every cretinous ‘Chelsea Rentboys’ chant ever since. Cheers Robbie. Strangely, Ian Herbert, Brian Reade, Duncan Castles et al don’t seem quite so keen to take the moral high ground about this one. We also know that Stuart Pearce used unacceptable, racially abusive language to well-known wind up merchant Paul Ince during a match in 1993. The two sorted it out afterwards, remained England colleagues for years after & Pearce later became a national hero during Euro ’96. Amazing what you can get away with if the media are on your side & you don’t play for Chelsea.
Or sometimes if you do. Didier Drogba has a cringey send off in a meaningless end of season game against Sunderland in 2015 & nobody bats an eye lid. Terry has a cringey send off in a meaningless end of season game against Sunderland & Garth Crooks is choking on his Lardy cake within 10 seconds. Incidentally, Drogba is one of many high-profile, articulate & strong-minded black players (Desailly, Hasselbaink, Makelele among many of the others) to have played alongside Terry. You imagine that after twenty years, a large chunk of it spent as club captain of a truly multi cultural & ethnically diverse football team, that at least one of these voices would have broken rank & outed him if anybody at Chelsea, the place where people really know him, seriously believed he was a racist.
Hopefully, his departure will be a chance to subdue the torrent of hate filled, third rate journalism about the club I have loved for nearly half a century. Terry not being a Chelsea player may mean they give him a slightly easier ride too. I wont hold my breath though. When I admire a Caravaggio painting I shelve the knowledge that he was a murderer. The sculptor Eric Gill’s works are still widely exhibited & enjoyed despite him having sexual encounters with not only his sisters & daughters but also the family dog. Makes briefly parking in a disabled space seem relatively small beer really, but woe betide the working class boy who succeeds as a Chelsea footballer & openly enjoys his success, making the sort of mistakes that young, talented, cocky & rich people do in all spheres of life. A different moral code will apply to you.
I saw John’s first game in a Chelsea shirt, a League Cup game in 1998, ironically against his new employers Aston Villa. He looked a bit ungainly & I wondered if he would go the way of Nick Crittendon & Steven Hampshire, players who had also made fleeting appearances in that competition before disappearing off to Yeovil, Brechin or other relative backwaters of football. Instead, he developed into a player of true greatness & it has been a pleasure to behold. I revere his talent, am grateful I got to see him display it regularly at first hand, & wish him well at Villa Park.