Odd lot West Ham fans. Back in his Upton Park days they belittled Frank Lampard as an overweight imposter, a victory for nepotism over talent due to his dad & uncle Harry Redknapp running the show, even infamously deriding his footballing abilities to the great man’s impossibly youthful teenage face at the now legendary Scott Canham fan forum featured below.
They subsequently squealed with delight at their club’s apparently impeccable Dick Turpin impression after Claudio Ranieri brought him to Stamford Bridge in 2001 for £11 million. Two decades & innumerable career highlights later their continued saltiness can only be attributed to the fact that none of these highlights were achieved wearing West Ham colours. Perhaps they should have appreciated him more when they had the chance. I do have some sympathy with them today though. If their owners had any sense then the overriding negative response of Hammers fans to the greatest goalscoring midfielder in English footballing history would ensure that an image of Frank Lampard in claret & blue days alongside other players past & present would not be appearing on the new graphic at their ground. Sadly for Irons followers the club is still run by Lady Brady & the Porno Twins so that is exactly what has happened. Not content with ripping the heart & soul out of their club by removing them from Upton Park, their spiritual home, they now thumb their nose further with a move of staggering stupidity & insensitivity. Funny for everyone else, sure, but are messrs Sullivan & Gold determined to enrage & alienate their own team’s followers at every opportunity? What next – a Paul Ince statue?
My favourite Frank Lampard moment against West Ham took place in 2009 when referee Mike Dean, that living emdodiment of ego overpowering intellect, absurdly made him take the same penalty three times at Upton Park, all of them tucked away with aplomb. Dean seemingly disallowed the second penalty for encroachment into the penalty area by a West Ham player, thus punishing the team taking the spot kick for an offence committed by an opposition player! Remarkable. The combination of an increasingly hysterical home crowd & a cretinous match official unveiling his usual unwelcome potpourri of arrogance, incompetence & desperate craving for attention would have proved too much for many. Inevitably Frank rose above it.
There have been many adaptations of Gabrielle-Suzanne de Villeneuve’s 18th century fairy tale Beauty & The Beast. Those of my vintage remember the ’80’s TV series starring Linda Hamilton & that bloke off Sons Of Anarchy. David Mellor, sometimes a Chelsea fan, sometimes a Fulham fan, QC & MP for Putney between 1979 & 1997, doubtless displayed a theatrical bent on occasions both in Parliament & court. Had it been transferred to the stage the combination of Mr Mellor & Hollywood A lister Charlize in another variant on the B&TB theme would have been a casting director’s wet dream. In reality there is only one reason to band this oddest of couples together here. Both have been linked erroneously to the wearing of Chelsea shirts, one publicly, one privately. One I would happily see clasped to the bosom of the Chelsea family, the other preferably disappearing out of its bottom.
The Charlize question is resolved quite quickly, & sadly would appear to be answered in the negative. The 2003 Oscar winner, awarded courtesy of her extraordinary performance as serial killer Aileen Wuornos in Monster, is known to be a keen football fan & did a lot of publicity for the 2010 World Cup in her native South Africa. She may have been presented with a Chelsea shirt in Pasadena but unlike Will Ferrell & Matthew McConaughey I am not aware she has ever visited Stamford Bridge, indeed the one London Premier league ground she has been spotted at since was the Emirates watching an Arsenal- Man Utd match. Welcome anytime though Charlize.
It ill behoves someone of my unbecoming physical appearance to cast aspersions on any human being, let alone a fellow Chelsea fan, but I think we can make an exception on this occasion when considering the standard Tory blueprint jamboree bag of styleless pomposity, elitism, wholly unwarranted self adoration & breathtaking snobbery that is David John Mellor. I seem to recall someone once describing a meeting with the erstwhile Minister Of Fun as like being hit in the gob with a tub of Brylcreem. They say you end up with the face you deserve. Were this glibbest of cliches to be true then one would require a sick & twisted imagination akin to the deluded fantasist Carl Beech to dredge up the full extent of a life of depravity necessary to explain Mellor’s remarkable television appearance during the Brexit fallout. Standard ageing Tory Boy face like a slapped arse merged with an unflattering, tight, collarless white shirt & an extraordinarily coiffured barnet, social media quickly nailing his breathtaking new look as an unholy mix of Andy Warhol & Alan Carr. All very unkind of course. On Warhol & Carr.
Is Mellor all bad? In the interests of balance I would have to say no, despite him starting his political career working for the delusional liar & crook Jeffrey Archer, then joining the Thatcher government ranks at the tender age of 32. This was the most brutal, vicious & self serving post-war administration we have had to endure thus far, though possibly not for much longer if the incompetent in Macchiavellian clothing Dominic Cummings continues to pull the idiot Bullingdon ballsack’s strings for any length of time. Mellor’s record in government did have its moments in truth, as he played notable roles in the introduction of tape recording police interviews before they could be considered admissable in court, & the passing of legislation to faciliate reinvestigation of miscarriages of justice. There was also the Animals (Scientific Procedures) Act 1986 which increased provision for protecting animals used for the purposes of vivisection. Not exactly Francis Of Assisi but in a malign era for British politics participation in the passing of any vaguely humane &/or liberal legislation was noteworthy. He was also rebuked by Thatcher during his stint at the Foreign Office after angrily berating an Israeli army colonel in front of television cameras for allowing his troops to brutally mistreat Palestinian civilians. The carpeting from the leaderene followed his refusal to apologise afterwards, which threatened to cause an international incident. After his return to the backbenches he led a revolt campaigning against handgun use in the wake of the Dunblane massacre in 1996. Intellectually & politically he was streets ahead of the inbred buffoons supposedly running the entire show now.
In an era when the administration he served largely treated football & its followers with at best disdain, at worst naked hostility, he returned to Chelsea as a supporter after a spell watching Fulham, which he credibly claimed was provoked by the vile racism that had infected the Stamford Bridge terraces throughout the late ’70’s & large chunks of the 1980’s. You would suspect with his political clout & legal contacts he was a useful ally during chairman Ken Bates’ steadfast rearguard action against property developers striving to evict the club from Stamford Bridge. Thatcher may have hated the game but her successor, John Major, was another Chelsea fan & following the Taylor Report there was a welcome thaw in government/football authority relations. I used to see Mellor on the way to evening matches occasionally, tumbling out of a taxi before strolling towards the ground from the Chelsea Conservative Club a few doors down from Vivien Westwood’s shop, an ungainly figure in unfashionably flarey trousers (though doubtless the suit would have cost a pretty packet) & quite possibly the only man in London less likely than me to be given a welcome in the latter establishment, in its 70’s guise as Sex essentially the birthplace of punk. By the mid ’90’s Mellor had succeeded another bumptious egotist, Danny Baker, as the host of BBC’s popular football radio phone in 606, presenting himself rather uneasily as a champion of the match going supporter, unthinkable a few years earlier, laughably unconvincing at the time. ‘I know many of you guys like a can of beer on the way to a game’ he once announced chirpily after someone had phoned in complaining about public transport restrictions on alcohol consumption on matchday away trips. Just one of the ‘guys’ eh Dave? I think I’m going to be sick. He had long been a source of queasy embarrassment to this Chelsea fan by then but my feelings were far from universally shared in SW6. He was high profile & a prominent visible presence near Bates on matchdays back then. People would stop & ask for his autograph on the Stamford Bridge concourse. We had gone from glamorous (if fleeting) visits to the Bridge from Hollywood icons Steve McQueen & Raquel Welch in the 1970’s to John Major, Seb Coe & Mellor by the early ’90’s. God preserve us. The late Tony Banks at least restored a semblance of political balance though none of them were ever going to rock a Chelsea shirt like Raquel had in her session with the legendary photographer Terry O’Neill, another Chelsea fan, sadly recently deceased. Not that Banks, Coe, Major or Mellor were ever likely to have donned a Chelsea shirt. Or were they?
On the surface this front page represents a relatively light hearted tissue of lies compared to disparaging the dead at Hillsbrough, hacking into the phone of a murdered teenager or more recently employing the most successful fusion of man & weasel in history, the malodorous Tony Parsons, the only person I have ever known to transfer his footballing allegiance from Spurs to Arsenal. His road to Damascus conversion from Labour to Tory ( & constant subsequent rimming of his former Islington neighbour Boris Johnson) is almost less remarkable given its running parallel with a big money transfer from TheMirror to The Sun. Great at telling us what we think is Tony, once the reptilian Murdoch has told him what to say & think in return for wadges of cash. Verily a working class hero is something to be. Maintaining a pattern of logical, consistent intellectual thought & behaviour having proved beyond him Parsons has now plumped to permanently indulge his avaricious appetite for money grubbing shithousery. Perfect for The Sun. A marriage made in Hell, like the bent organ’s liaisons with the late sex offender Max Clifford. Back in the day Mr Clifford would regularly have access to the front page to spout a flood of bullshit to advance the fortunes of himself & his client. Freddie Starr Ate MyHamster anyone? That was Max. And the Mellor in Chelsea strip was another, as his former lover Antonia de Sancha had regrettably employed the disgusting Clifford by this time. Had any of the cash guzzling liars involved in this sham story had any real sexual imagination they would know that any decent fan of this era would have got far more of a charge from working their dubious bedroom magic with the unfortunate young lady sporting the Chelsea shirt rather than them. Especially a short sleeved 1970 FA Cup winning cotton replica shirt of the sort available in the club shop during the 1990’s. So rumour has it….
Mellor’s extra marital dalliance proved an amusing diversion for the nation in the late summer of 1992, bringing forth a torrent of ridicule for both the hapless Heritage Secretary, aka the Minister for Fun, & the unfortunate de Sancha, by all accounts a rather nice person with a low key acting career that had purportedly included a role in a soft core porn film where she had been embroiled in a tryst with a one legged pizza delivery man. Many thought this an upgrade on the aesthetically unpleasing Mr Mellor. Though Antonia conceded his intelligence & charm, along with his bank balance, had been substantial enough to turn her head, more commonly the prospect of sexual congress with the honourable member for Putney turned only stomachs. Ms de Sancha has long since confessed that the more lurid claims that subsequently appeared in the tabloids were untrue, but Mellor is still remembered by many these days as the politician who wore a Chelsea shirt during sex. It did him no harm with sections of the crowd at Stamford Bridge. Having lain doggo for weeks at the beginning of the 1992-3 season, as the tabloids feasted on his discomfort, he eventually emerged as Autumn approached. Quickly spotted taking his seat in the posh seats in the middle section of the East Stand our man was greeted with a rousing chorus of ‘There’s only one David Mellor’ from both The Shed & West Stand benches, where I was sat, to his evident delight & my mortification. Even I had to laugh in truth, as he acknowledged the serenade with both arms raised triumphantly like he had scored the winning goal in the EUFA Cup final. He might have been better served by reacting with a greater sense of decorum given the hideous charade of the infamous, 5 bar gate press conference he subjected his long suffering wife, in-laws & children to in the aftermath of this ludicrous interlude, clan Mellor supposedly united together in an ultimately abortive effort to save his ministerial career. Many years later this farcical put up job was lampooned effortlessly in an episode of Little Britain. The inevitable divorce duly followed. Ironically, the final nail in Mellor’s political career at the highest level did not come from the de Sancha affair, as widely believed, but when he & his family were found to have enjoyed a gratis month long holiday in Marbella courtesy of his friend Monica Bauwens, daughter of the then finance director of the PLO. It is also ironic & nauseating that the scumbag newspaper that prides itself as the scourge of nonces everywhere regularly gave up its front page to a man like Max Clifford, jailed for 8 years in 2014 for sexual assaults on women aged between 15 & 19. The judge made it clear that he also believed Clifford had assaulted a 12 year old girl in Spain but this was not presented to the court because of the location of the incident. Mellor was understandably quick to revel in Clifford’s well deserved fall from grace, the latter’s death in December 2017 also inspiring the clumsiest but best deserved bad taste joke of that yuletide.
Q: What has 14 windows that will never be opened?
A: Max Clifford’s advent calendar.
Mellor’s man of the people schtick has itself long been exposed as a convenient contrivance. In 2010 he had a heated exchange with a chef from the River Lounge, a bar & restaurant near the plush home Mellor shares with Lady Cobham, his long term partner, repeatedly telling the man to ‘fuck off’ having labelled him a ‘fat bastard’ & perhaps most tellingly instructing him ‘go & do your £10 an hour job somewhere else’. Power to the people. 4 years later Mr Mellor celebrated his partner’s CBE award by abusing the cab driver on the way home, referring to him as a ‘sweaty, stupid little shit’ adding ‘you’ve been driving a cab for 10 years, I’ve been in the cabinet, I’m an award-winning broadcaster, I’m a Queen’s Counsel. You think that your experiences are anything compared to mine.’ Given that the row was instigated by a disagreement over the route the cabbie chose to take is it too impertinent to suggest to the great man that on this occasion the 10 years hard labour behind the wheel should indeed have held sway? Incidentally, Mellor has not practiced at the bar since 1979 so the boast about being a QC is grounded on a fallacy. He chose to invoke a thankfully now defunct custom that an MP who was also a barrister could choose to be acknowledged as a QC after being in Parliament for 15 years. He has done nothing in the legal world to to justify the award of the title whatsoever. Once again his adversary was told to ‘fuck off.’ Anyone would think the ‘guy’ had enjoyed having a can of beer on the way to & from a Buckingham Palace investiture. Were my fellow Chelsea fans who serenaded him in 1992 disillusioned at the true face of the man revealing itself two decades later? Not sure, probably not though. I am unaware how often, if ever, Mellor goes to Chelsea these days but the ghastly Michael Gove is now a regular. Dominic Raab, another elitist parasite, is a reputed fan too. These simultaneously corrupt & inept chancers have been shitting on the rest of us for so long that some people seem to have grown to like it. With slimeballs like those in the posh seats the failure of Charlize Theron to follow up her Pasadena photo opportunity with a stroll along the Fulham Road becomes less of a mystery.
Always welcome though Charlize. It’s much nicer in the West Stand Lower btw.
40 years ago today I started my first full time job as a trainee bank clerk at Barclays Bank. I had chosen them because (unlike NatWest) they gave me 50p to cover my bus fare following the interview, which survived one sticky moment when the pleasant lady conducting it raised the issue of my alleged passion for disco dancing. The school had sent the wrong pupil notes, those of my namesake, a boy a couple of years younger than me. Suffice to say this Philip Munday never made Travolta sweat, my exquisite James Brown pelvic thrusts back then a clandestine arrangement between me, my huge stereo headphones, cheap alcohol & a darkened bedroom. Then, & only then, would I discover ants in my pants & a need to dance. My banking misadventure lasted less than a year. The highlight at my first branch was the presence of Brian, the assistant manager. He would spend large portions of his day sat in the tea room smoking his pipe & ogling the scantily clad lovelies in that day’s copy of The Sun, pausing twice a day to spit out the coffee I made him & pronouncing it disgusting. I didn’t take it personally. Instant coffee powder is as instant coffee powder does, & like Brian I didn’t buy into doing the MaxwellHouse shake. Only a small step up from the bland nightmare of Mellow Birds, which certainly failed to make me smile. Brian was always good for an aged anecdote about his youthful days sharing a flat in London with Leonard Rossiter, a big name in television by 1980, star of Rising Damp, The Fall & Rise Of Reginald Perrin & a phenomenally successful & long running ad campaign for Cinzano Bianco with Joan Collins. Each advert would culminate in the Division 2 diva being drenched in this frankly revolting vermouth. I drank a bottle of it once on top having polished off a tidy amount of red wine & suffice to say spent the rest of the following day wishing Leonard Rossiter had also been around the previous evening to cause me to spill it all over my front rather down my foolhardy gullet. One day, contentedly filling the room with Bruno Flake pipe smoke & wincing at the prospect of drinking the coffee I had just brought him, Brian reminisced that he & Rossiter had once bumped into Richard Burton & Elizabeth Taylor in Covent Garden & had a chat with them. ‘Nice girl, bit on the chubby side’ was his considered view of the lady who brought Cleopatra to the silver screen & was once considered by many to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Given his preferred tea room reading matter perhaps he was just peeved La Taylor didn’t get her melons out amidst the Covent Garden fruit & veg. Suffice to say that Brian was not himself blessed with matinee idol good looks. The rot really set in after 4 months when I was transferred to another branch & it slowly dawned on everyone, including myself, that I was a truly terrible junior bank clerk. I once spent an hour trying to telephone a customer by repeatedly dialling their bank account number. Never did get through. My resignation was accepted with indecent haste & the admission from my boss that I was on the verge of getting the push anyway. This would have been some feat. Getting sacked took some doing in the banking world back then unless you were caught with your hand in the till. John was a testimony to this. He worked in the branch I had started in, but lived in a flat above the manager’s office in my second billet. During the Cheltenham Festival John invited some fellow racing enthusiasts round one afternoon & their cheering & stomping, clearly facilitated by some plentiful daytime drinking, led to an enraged Roy, the branch manager, banging on the ceiling with his walking stick. Peter O’Sullivan’s iconic commentary booming out at remarkable volume from John’s television & accompanying the raucous revelry was clearly not conducive to Roy discussing prospective mortgages & bank loans with bemused customers. John was a character, always friendly to staff & customers alike but frequently smelling of booze & seemingly half cut. He once tried to sell me a revolting, threadbare, filthy looking nylon brown suit for £4 that he had left hanging in the gent’s toilets next to his half eaten box of Ritz biscuits. The fact I was the best part of 6 inches taller than him did not diminish the enthusiasm of his sales pitch. Unfortunately the suit was not only the wrong size & hideous but hanging up in a room permeated with the stench of the combined shits of half a dozen male colleagues. For similar reasons I was not minded to dip into his Ritz biscuits either. I liked Brian & John but I hated Barclays. One local building business had their takings paid in daily by a nice man liked by all the cashiers. He broke his leg & was laid off work unpaid so asked for a small overdraft to tide him over. It was refused. When franking the post one afternoon I was asked to remove the bank logo from envelopes being sent to South Africa because ‘there are some funny people over there.’ Or oppressed black people rebelling against the disgusting apartheid system still in full flow back then as they might more accurately have been described. A system Barclays thrived on & exploited to the full, as my painfully ignorant teenage self was belatedly in the process of discovering. Selling books & bus travel haven’t made me rich but at least exploiting the misery of others is less prevalent than in banking, a very dirty business masking under a cloak of largely unwarranted respectability.
5 years & 6 days after my inauspicious working career staggered into life future Chelsea fan Boris Becker won his first Wimbledon title at the tender age of 17. Already an imposing unit he combined power with agility & irrepressible energy, throwing himself around the court with an exhilarating, youthful, reckless abandonment that thrilled everyone. Apart from me. I loathed Boris Becker in 1985, largely because he became the first Wimbledon champion to be younger than me (6 years younger at that) & partly because he wasn’t Jimmy Connors whose combative, streetfighting style I adored, had grown up with & wasn’t ready to see sacrificed at the altar of a generation younger than me just yet. Connors now resembled Gregory Peck in The Gunfighter, grizzled but unbowed, deep down knowing a younger man’s bullet would be getting him shortly but stubbornly refusing to bow to the inevitable. He was still going a decade later, finally retiring at 43 as magnificently cussed & bloody minded as ever. He never won Wimbledon again though.
Being young, carefree, unseeded & cocky Becker was rightly untroubled by the petty concerns of the like of me. Connors had been crushed in the semi finals by South African born Kevin Curren. My dislike of Boris Becker was underpinned hugely by the green eye of jealousy. At 17 I was still at school & my most noteworthy achievement was eating so many sweets I required a staggering nine fillings at the dentists that summer. I achieved little else, & harbouring the notion that the place to a teenage girl’s heart was through plying her with Pear Drops & Rhubarb & Custards got me nowhere, unless you count even more time in the dentist’s chair. It was not the way to a girl’s heart, at best they thought I was, well, sweet. No 17 year old boy wants to be considered sweet. One girl at school professed a liking for Bassetts LiqouriceAllsorts so I went for broke & bought her a box. They were returned to me swiftly after the side of the box confirmed the sell by date had expired. Sadly I was slowly learning that lovers, unlike dental cavities, are born not made. Adopting similar tactics to those employed by dodgy strange men in grubby overcoats was never likely to be a winner. I once accepted the offer of some sweets off a man just like that walking home from school when I was about 8. Strangely enough they were also liqourice allsorts. Very nice they were too, so much so that I excitedly told my mum all about it when I got home. That went well. At least they weren’t stale.
In 1985 it was Harry Bassett rather than Bertie Bassett at the local football club in Wimbledon, where Boris Becker now lives, as the then Dons manager was in the process of taking his raucous band of yobbish misfits all the way to the top division. Ultimately they went on to win the FA Cup, beating Liverpool at Wembley in 1988, but Bassett had moved on by then. My dad had played at Plough Lane in his youth, but I never went there, something I rather regret now. I have never been to the tennis either, though my sister went several times on school trips in the mid 1970’s, joining the hysterical, clumpy shoed, flare wearing adolescent hordes terrorising the traditional fans as they pursued the teenage wonder Bjorn Borg around the outside courts at every opportunity. Borg was young, Swedish, blonde, attractive & wore impossibly tight shorts. Women are so shallow compared to men aren’t they?
My desperate need to see someone stem the tide of teenage brilliance found me hoping for Curren to triumph in the 1985 final. By then I was an unemployed History graduate & no longer naive about apartheid. The chances of me supporting a white South African (although Curren now had US citizenship) back then in any situation would normally have been about as likely as me purchasing a copy of that summer’s Black Lace single I Speaka Da Lingo, as gratuitously offensive a record as it is musically abject, but confounding the more cynical of us in 1985 by proving it was physically possible to convert dog shit into seven inch vinyl. In today’s toxic climate I may well have to bend the knee one day just for mentioning I Speaka Da Lingo once, even in an obscure blog piece read by nobody. Make that twice. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I once saw the two members of Black Lace leaving Dixon’s, laden down with Saisho carrier bags, absurd perms, oversized garishly coloured sunglasses & tight jeans to the fore. Two tits with tat. Club 18-30 had come to Oxford for the day, looking suspiciously older than its target audience. In stature both of these imbeciles resembled their talent. Tiny. Already the much maligned 1970’s were demanding a written apology from all of us. It has taken far too long but here’s mine for what it’s worth. I am deeply sorry 1970’s. I should also apologise to Kevin Curren, no more responsible for an accident of birth than the rest of us, & Boris Becker himself who stormed to victory in 4 sets & quickly won me over in the following years. Nonetheless, his first Wimbledon triumph was still my sporting equivalent of all policeman suddenly looking younger than you, & 23 is a little early to start sensing a progression towards middle age.
Becker won Wimbledon again the following year before a shock early round exit to the late Peter Doohan in 1987, by which point he had become a target for The Sun under its swaggering, bullying cretin of an editor, the loathsome Kelvin Mackenzie, living proof that an entire human body can be taken over by its unwashed arsehole. The Sun is often called a rag but we can all find a use for a rag from time to time. Leave rags out of it. The discovery that a rich, successful testosterone filled 19 year old male quite liked sex was manna from heaven for this cesspit of puerility & Becker became known as Bonking Boris. 30 years later the same organ were strangely more muted by the middle aged antics of a man of the same name knocking out inbred copies of himself all over the place. Quelle surprise. The likes of Elton John & ‘Allo ‘Allo! star Gordon Kaye may not have produced work that filled me with glee in the 1980’s but once The Sun made their desire to systematically destroy the lives of people like this clear in the 1980’s I felt huge empathy for their plight. David Pleat’s alleged kerb crawling antics were a little more of a challenge to my better nature but only because he was manager of Spurs at the time. Becker joining the ranks of those persecuted by Mackenzie & his parasitical lackeys saw him added to the list & by the time he won Wimbledon for a third time, beating Stefan Edberg in 1989, I was firmly in his camp. He also won the US Open that year.
He was never a self effacing character in the way we frequently & unfairly expect British sports people to be, but on a good day he could be as charming & witty off court as he was exciting on it. Compared to the charisma vacuums that were the brooding & surly Ivan Lendl & the stunningly brilliant automaton Pete Sampras there was a welcome streak of humanity to Becker, & unlike Andre Agassi he never had a mullet. Despite the best efforts of malignant moron Mackenzie he quickly identified as an Anglophile & also boiled the piss of the twattier end of the more narrow minded sections within German society by twice marrying black women. Like many who come to fame young there is still an air of unworldly immaturity about some of his actions over the years. Despite the many millions he has earned playing & coaching (he oversaw Novak Djokovic’s career between 2013 & 2016) bankruptcy still beckoned in 2017 & was extended after hidden assets were discovered two years later. He famously fathered a child on a stairway in the appropriately named Nobu restaurant in London, describing it amusingly as the most expensive five seconds of his life, but originally denying paternity. Only yesterday he got embroiled in a social media war of words with the underachieving walking irritant that is Aussie tennis player Nick Kyrgios, actually achieving the unlikely aim of making the latter look like something other than the egotistical streak of six foot spite he usually resembles. Kyrgios referred to Becker as a doughnut & still came out looking more like the adult. The striped blazers & cravats of recent times have also added a further air of contrived flamboyance, & the suspicion that Boris can be somewhat of a dick.
No matter, he was a great tennis player & is now an avid Blue. His belated support for Chelsea began when he was living on the Kings Road after retirement & coincided with the early Abramovich era of Lampard & Drogba, which amusingly Becker thinks predates Chelsea as a truly successful & cool team. One day Boris we must sit down & discuss the 2-4 home defeat to Shrewsbury in 1980. Bless him. He claims ownership of an impressive array of Chelsea scarves, randomly & surely innocently buying one from a matchday street stall that celebrated the existence of the Headhunters, Chelsea’s famous hooligan firm of the 1980’s. With doubtless similar innocence he proceeded to wear it to a Champions League game against PSG in 2015, causing something of a stir in the process! Supporting Chelsea will probably be the only thing Boris Becker & I ever have in common but despite both of us being somewhat past our own sell by dates nowadays the adage that proved a bum steer as far as kickstarting my romantic teenage existence remains curiously apt as a template for a desirable football club fanbase.
Shola Ama was discovered by chance while singing to herself on the platform at Hammersmith Tube Station as a 15 year old. At 18 she released her first album True Love which duly won a Brit award. Truly the stuff of fairytales. Less magical for Shola would appear to be her Big Breakfast appearance that year (1997) when a drooling, touchy feely snotbucket by the name of Rick Adams (apparently a main presenter then – I don’t remember him at all) was perfectly happy to stroke the latest soul sensation’s teenage thigh as he sat next to her on The Big Breakfast sofa. At least wait till you get to the BBC mate. This was the day before that year’s FA Cup Final between Chelsea & Middlesbrough & Shola escaped the myopic groper’s clutches long enough to reveal a fingernail decorated with a Chelsea logo to indicate who she was backing for the big match. I suspect his sweaty little nuts would double up as earrings pronto were he to attempt something similar on Shola today. Mercifully, within a minute we were at the Stamford Bridge cafe with a promising young Big Breakfast roving reporter by the name of Davina McCall. I think we do remember her. She interviewed Mark Meehan, a man who I have never met but have several times enjoyed chats with on social media & is clearly a thoroughly good egg. Mark correctly predicted the score (2-0 Chelsea) which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest as he has forgotten more about the Blues then most of us will ever know. He recently recalled the interview, verifying that Davina was great fun, & doubtless she kept her hands to herself as well. Shola lost her way a bit after her stunning early success, developing a potentially ruinous drug habit as the hits dried up. Happily she came out the other side long ago, that wonderful voice firmly intact, as illustrated in the 2015 clip above. Appropriately this was filmed at Under The Bridge, the venue under the East Stand at Stamford Bridge. A YouTube interview confirms that she is still a Chelsea fan. Way to go fellow traveller Shola. Keep the blue flag flying high!
Rick Adams currently resides in the Where are they now? file. In truth I didn’t look too hard.
It was unclear what this season held in store for Chelsea when it began in August. It is safe to say that browsing eBay looking for face masks the following June, with a quarter of the league programme still to be completed, was not an option anyone considered.
No of course I didn’t buy one of these rather gaudy accessories. Do you really think I am so feeble & emotionally undernourished that I need to proclaim my love for a football team while wearing an item intended to help protect the lives of others?
‘You’re a pussy who gives a shit about 1955 go fuck your grandad’
Making up with passion what it lacks in grammatical accuracy this contribution to my Twitter feed from the charmingly named Liverpool ‘fan’ only white girls are attractive back in 2018 followed a 1-1 draw that afternoon at Stamford Bridge between Chelsea & his heroes. I somehow doubt he has ever seen them in the flesh himself. That evening Chelsea fans were once again being branded vile, classless & 100% racist. Alternatively Stamford Bridge was a plastic haven for the casual tourist ignorant of the true tradition & history of a proper, decent football club, with a proper, decent fanbase. The polar opposite of Liverpool we were told. Again. Four days before the game a below strength Chelsea had beaten a below strength Liverpool team at Anfield in an underwhelming Carabao Cup tie, enlivened by a brilliant Eden Hazard cameo performance off the bench, culminating in a stunning winning goal. Gilly added to the anti Chelsea gaiety by describing this win as a Blues fan’s idea of history. A couple of hours into feral abuse & Scouse contempt for the club I hold dear finally drew a polite demurral of Gilly’s somewhat lame comic observation, which had probably attracted several times more likes than I will ever have followers. My idea of history, I told him, was Chelsea winning the league in 1955, when unfortunately no result information versus Liverpool was available due to them finishing that season in 11th place in Division 2. Gilly’s mildly sarcastic response drew more applause from the more rabid end of the adoring, red clad Twitter masses, history seemingly less important when it fails to support your lazy prejudices. An hour later he was posting pictures of the plane wreckage from the 1958 Munich disaster. Thanks for coming Gilly. only white girls are attractive, as previously quoted, was less forgiving, so I merely blew him a virtual kiss & moved on. This seemed to throw him until he accused me, several hours later, of being ‘a bit noncey.’ What a sweetheart. Don’t knock what you can’t afford darling. As an ageing Chelsea rent boy only white, what did you honestly expect? My grandad died in 1985 by the way, so an incestuous coital encounter was never on the cards, lest I be accused of necrophilia on top of noncing.
The point of all this, aside from the obvious reminder to self to avoid social media in the aftermath of a Chelsea-Liverpool match, is ultimately not to pointlessly stir the pot further, but contrast Gilly & only white girls are attractive with The Lad’s Dad, who, like me, will actually be attending the forthcoming Chelsea Liverpool FA Cup game in early March rather than carping spitefully from the online sidelines. He is the first (& probably last) Liverpool fan to follow me on Twitter, & a pleasing reminder that the loudest & ugliest social media voices are not representative of an entire fanbase. For every Tommy Robinson fanboy (& I am aware there are plenty of them) there are scores of Chelsea fans who do not fit the identikit created by the media & rival fans, nor are the rest of the seats at Stamford Bridge filled exclusively by bewildered Japanese tourists clutching their plastic bag of clubshop tat & failing to find the right seat. Not yet anyway. The Lad’s Dad goes home & away with Liverpool along with his wife & disabled son. He recently tweeted a message congratulating Chelsea on being the only Premier League club he is aware of that do not charge an entrance fee for disabled away fans, having obtained tickets for the aforementioned FA Cup tie. This may well be the only positive comment on Chelsea ever made on social media by a Liverpool fan & also begs the question why other clubs do charge. Actually, I think we probably know why.
I would wish The Lad’s Dadan enjoyable evening at the Bridge next month but am confident this can only be achieved via a Liverpool win & I am equally keen on a Chelsea victory, less for bragging rights than the fact that I have one major beef with Liverpool’s excellent coach Jurgen Klopp, namely his despicable approach to the FA Cup. Liverpool are so good at present that I fear them winning the trophy half heartedly putting out second to third string teams along the way. They have already beaten recently resurgent neighbours Everton this way. The FA Cup deserves more respect than that, as indeed do the Liverpool supporters who turned up in numbers at Shrewsbury in the last round for an evening kick off on a Sunday. They clearly retain due reverence for a tournament that once mattered so much, even if the club & its coach do not.
In truth I am tiring of the constant hate infesting the relationship between the two clubs & their followers, while aware I have frequently been a far from innocent bystander as the bullets have flown. Traditionally the loathing of Liverpool has not grieved me but the animosity is overwhelming now, as is the obsession for constantly pursuing the well worn grudges that feed it. The 30th anniversary of the Hillsbrough disaster last year was marked by the continued failure of the judicial system to supply any comfort for the victim’s families & the many traumatized survivors of that awful day. Like many others I spent years in football stadiums that were potential death traps. Another day, another time, another place…..insert your club’s name & imagine its fans enduring a similar ordeal. However, it was Liverpool fans who were the victims & it was most definitely not their fault. Using Hillsbrough as a banter tool is similar conduct to those Liverpool fans & club representatives who years ago attempted vainly to shift the blame for Heysel on Chelsea supporters. Sickening & shameful.
Factor in Liverpool’s current overwhelming on pitch superiority to every other team in England, allied to them being the current European champions, & the obsession with demeaning every aspect of their existence seems as desperate, hollow, petty & pathetic as the sneers & smears flowing incessantly in the other direction since Chelsea’s dominance in the first Mourinho era. I am enjoying watching club legend Frank Lampard & his coaching staff blending home grown youth with established stars in the wake of the transfer ban imposed by EUFA last summer. However it has knocked the club out of contention for any serious challenges for the biggest honours, namely the Premiership & Champion’s League. Chelsea’s main rivals currently are Spurs, Arsenal, Man Utd & Leicester City. Liverpool & Man City reside on a different footballing planet. Before March is done Liverpool will possibly be crowned runaway champions, which given the extraordinary wealth of City will be a remarkable achievement. We don’t have to like it, & I for one fervently hope regaining their European title eludes them. Nonetheless the constant jibes about mass unemployment, blame culture & Steven Gerrard slipping up in 2014 are sounding mighty tired these days. When the latter chant rang out at Stamford Bridge during a Group stage Europa League fixture against Belarusian opponents at Stamford Bridge last season I let out a heavy sigh. As with singing We Hate Tottenham! during the traditional pre-match spinning of reggae classic Liquidator (regardless of who the opposition is) the message to a hated rival is sent loud & clear. We are obsessed with you & we don’t have enough to sing about ourselves. West Ham have been doing this to Chelsea for years with Stick Your Blue Flag Up Your Arse now being joined by the morphing of Rotterdam by The Beautiful South into Chelsea Are The Rent Boys. Come on Chelsea, do we really need to reduce ourselves to the level of West Ham? With no on pitch success in decades & shorn of their spiritual home they sometimes appear to have only bitterness & spite holding them together, & not enough brain cells to realise that by devoting so much time to expressing it they succeed only in blowing smoke up our arses instead of bubbles in the air. In the last 3 seasons Chelsea have won a European trophy, the FA Cup & the Premier League. 25 years ago Stand Up If You Hate Man U was the chant to get everyone off their seats at Stamford Bridge. Sat next to me Bill would always refuse to join in, saying he’d stand up when we were in a position to compete with them on an equal footing & not before. I thought he was being a tad pompous back then, now he looks like a soothsayer. There is an episode of Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads? where Bob Ferris & Terry Collier are forced to share a bed. When Bob cannot sleep Terry suggests he closes his eyes & has a fantasy. To his disgust Bob discloses that the object of desire in his chosen fantasy is not Brigitte Bardot or a MIss World contestant but his fiancee Thelma. Terry responds by referring to his own (broken!) marriage, stating that his wife ‘was there when I went to sleep & there when I woke up but in between she didn’t get a look in.’ This behaviour may be a poor recipe for domestic contentment but is a sound template for matchday behaviour. I may dislike Spurs & Liverpool with varying degrees of intensity but unless they are that day’s opponents I couldn’t give a toss what they are up to when my own team are playing. Liverpool were the predominant footballing force of my youth as Chelsea withered on the vine, imposing, powerful & brilliant. Allowing them to occupy too much of my time now is like cowering in a darkened corner at a school reunion as the class bully from 40 years ago stands centre stage holding court. Hold your head up, enjoy what you have & let them get on with it. Bury fans don’t have a team to watch at all, let alone one bursting with promise like the current Chelsea line up.
There is an element of tactical manouevre to this personal ceasefire where Liverpool are concerned. It is fair to say there appears to be no general appetite on the part of fans from either club to join me in a more cordial form of mutual antipathy. However, I also genuinely like Jurgen Klopp, & the club hierarchy also deserve credit for there being no doubt that he would be given the time & resources to take the club from where they were when he took over in 2015 to where they stand now, seemingly on the verge of another golden era. He can be an arsehole on the touchline, berating officials in a manner that would spell greater trouble for some coaches, but generally Klopp represents a refreshing & welcome change from the tedious squabbling & mind games of the Ferguson, Wenger & Mourinho era. Mourinho may still be around, but his perennial penchant for petty point scoring over rivals renders him an anachronism. At one point during the 1-1 draw at Stamford Bridge in 2018 Klopp flashed those extraordinary teeth, seemingly transplanted from the mouth of Bingo from Banana Splits, at Chelsea coach Maurizio Sarri. The resulting beaming smile betrayed not only his superior dentistry compared to the nicotine stained gnashers of the Italian but also his evident enjoyment of the tactical battle taking place on the pitch. This is fun was the clear message. Yes, fun. Remember that Jose?
He smiles & laughs a lot during matches does Klopp, & I find it hard not to warm to him. We live in a time when hysterical xenophobes are cheering on the indolent, spineless, mendacious, tousled haired blonde bullshitter currently preparing to ruin our country simply because he has hitched his star to Brexit. They do not seem to realise that for Boris Johnson the whole campaign is a means to one end & one end only, namely the furtherance of his own career. He was a Remainer until it was pointed out that he could destabilise the Cameron government by opposing that administration’s desire to stay in the EU. Liverpool coach he may be, but there is some solace & amusement to be drawn from watching a team threaten to sweep the board domestically & win the Champions League courtesy of the tactical acumen & drive of a man who could not be more European if he tried. We probably know less than nothing about the real Jurgen Klopp (I believe he frequents his local regularly so props for that) but his public image ticks many of the hackneyed stereotypes of apparent European naffness lingering in the memory banks of people my age. Eurovision meets Eurotrash. You could imagine him inspiring glibTerry Wogan witticisms while asking the Cyprus jury for their votes in 1982, or in the following decade stood naked save for a pair of Jesus sandals explaining to Antoines De Caunes his use of female ejaculate as the primary base material for his paintings. Indeed, the cringey let’s talk about 6 interview included below is more like a clip from Eurovision than a triumphant post match football conversation. It is a telling moment, ultra cheesey & lacking in cool but so much so that Jurgen effectively ends up catching the dude bus by default given that zero are clearly the amount of shits he gives about such considerations. Ferguson, Wenger & Mourinho are managerial greats but what hard work they could be, both individually & collectively. Messrs Guardiola, Klopp & Lampard eschew portraying themselves as masters of modern Macchiavellian manouevres by virtue of endlessly showing their watch faces to 4th officials or reducing the likes of Kevin Keegan to a histrionic seething wreck. The latter 1996 Fergie achievement is surely a living definition of shooting fish in a barrel. The Mourinho-Wenger feud had its moments of amusement but culminated in the dying embers of Mourinho’s second Chelsea spell with Jose visibly flinching after an insipid touchline push from the bristling Gallic stickinsect. Wenger had his tie flicked in return. Middle aged men recreating a scene that would have been left on the Grange Hill cutting room floor as just too drearily puerile for words. Mourinho gave the illusion of cool once, but it has evaporated now. Even then, back in 2004-5, his first season in England, Manchester City inflicted the only Premier League defeat of the season on Chelsea & their fans taunted the self styled & undoubtedly well attired Special One with the one off chant YourCoat’s From Matalan. Klopp would have laughed at that. Jose didn’t. Cool is a great concept but only if you can sustain it. If Klopp’s undoubted temper led to physical confrontation with a rival coach I am confident it would be conducted face to face. At Real Madrid in 2011 Mourinho sidled up on the blindside of Barcelona’s Tino Vilanova, gouged him in the eye with his finger then hurriedly sloped off & hid behind his players & coaching staff. Classless, cowardly & uncool in the extreme.
Twelve points from the Liverpool jury. Eurovision rigged again.
Unfavourably comparing Mourinho to Klopp will not win me brownie points with many Chelsea fans but no matter. Earlier this season Klopp berated an interpreter at a Champion’s League press conference in Salzburg. The next day he began the conference by making a full & frank personal apology in front of the assembled throng. Cool. In 2015 Mourinho heralded the new season by berating & bullying two Chelsea physios for doing their job & treating an injured player, Chelsea’s best player, Eden Hazard, to boot. One of them, the much respected & popular Dr Eva Carneiro, was also subjected to misogynistic abuse in Portugese. Mourinho not only failed to apologise, he relieved both physios of their first team duties. Carneiro eventually left taking the club & Mourinho to court in the process. Not cool. For all his prodigious achievements in football Jose frequently shows himself to be a sour, spiteful little man, whose loyalties lie chiefly with himself. Referring to past triumphs in interviews it is always ‘I won 3 Premier Leagues,’ ‘I won 2 Champions Leagues.’ We is a word rarely heard, Deco, Zanetti, Milito, Terry, Lampard & Drogba mere bit part players apparently. When it comes to Chelsea selling Kevin De Bruyne & Mo Salah for a fraction of what they are now worth Jose is less keen to talk up his omnipotence. That was the club’s decision, he was just the coach at the time. We tend to hear the word I rather less when the question of these monumental transfer blunders are put to him. Last season’s Champions League aside, Klopp has yet to scale such heights in terms of trophies, but however many cups end up in the Anfield Road cabinet under his tutelage you can be sure all successes will be referred to in a collective rather than individual context. Neither will the fans be treated with the disrespect Mourinho has shown to Chelsea supporters ever since returning to England in 2013, empowering the Mourinho’s right,your fans are shite brigade to this day. His major achievement second time round was leading the team to the Premier League in 2014-15. The title was clinched during a home game against Crystal Palace. As Chelsea fans sang the name of the recently departed club legend Frank Lampard, the surly little bleeder sat scornfully in the dugout shaking his head & clearly mouthing two words. Fuck off. It really is all about him. Can you imagine Klopp doing likewise in a few weeks as the Kop serenade Steven Gerrard? No, me neither.
Nonetheless I think Jurgen Klopp & his employers have their approach to the FA Cup all wrong. If they beat Chelsea with a vastly weakened side (& given Chelsea’s dismal home record this is distinctly possible) they could end up winning the trophy by default, picking stronger teams from now on if the title is clinched early & they get knocked out in Europe. Liverpool fans will doubtless be as steadfastly loyal to Klopp as Chelsea supporters were to Mourinho as the team slumped horribly in the last few months of his second tenure, but their club has not served English domestic cup football well so far this season. One thing you have to say for Jose Mourinho is he always likes to compete for every trophy going, even the Community Shield, & that is to his eternal credit. In the Carabao Cup Liverpool were a victim of circumstance as they were in the World Club Championship at the same time as they were due to play their Quarter Final against Aston Villa. What was effectively their youth team lost heavily. This had echoes of Man Utd in 2000, also competing in the World Club Championship but withdrawing completely from the FA Cup. This was at the behest of the football authorities & the government to supplement the sucking up to frequently corrupt FIFA officials in an abortive attempt to win the race to host the 2006 World Cup. The FA Cup has never recovered from the blow to its status caused by those ultimately fruitless shenanigans. Will the failure to rearrange the fixture at Villa Park do likewise to the Carabao Cup? I doubt Klopp & his paymasters will be bothered unduly. The football authorities have also conspired to undermine the FA Cup again this year. Following Shrewsbury grabbing a surprise draw at Gay Meadow in January, the 4th round replay date at Anfield was set slap bang in the middle of the supposed mid winter break initiated this year. Jurgen consequently threw his toys out of the pram & announced he would not be attending the replay. A severely weakened side would once again be fielded with Under 23’s coach Neil Critchley at the helm. He was true to his word. First team regular James Milner did turn up at the ground to cheer on the team to a narrow victory, a welcome touch of old school solidarity. Jurgen kept in touch via his mobile, quite literally phoning it in. Nobody comes out of this well but before all the blame is left at the door of the increasingly repellent FA it must be said Klopp has form. He picked a pitifully weak team away at Exeter in the 3rd round during his first season at Anfield. They finished 8th in the Premier League that season so that cannot have been the main cause for treating the tournament with such cavalier disregard, although they did get to the final of the Europa League. The brief from the club & its coach has been clear ever since, & that is sad. Liverpool are big on citing history & tradition. There is a fantastic documentary on their legendary manager Bill Shankly which makes clear that he considered their first ever FA Cup final victory over Leeds in 1965 as more pivotal in establishing the club as a major force in the game than clinching the league title the year before. There is footage of him in 1971 passionately informing fans in a packed Liverpool city centre how aware he has made the players of their responsibility not to disappoint as they had just done in losing to Arsenal at Wembley. Times have changed & football has changed, but there will still be plenty of Liverpool fans making the mid-week journey to Stamford Bridge for Round 5 next month, taking time off work, & facing a long journey home in the early hours of the morning. To play a depleted team again cheats not only them but also Chelsea & their followers, my humble self included.
Keep smiling Jurgen, hopefully not too much on the night, one assumes you will be there? If not give the Shankly documentary a watch. You will learn more in 90 minutes about what really matters about English football than a lifetime talking to your club’s owners.
They would probably just tell me to go fuck my grandad….
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, many 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.