“Elvis Presley’s died!” I exclaimed as I knocked on Mum & Dad’s bedroom door at our house in Kentish Town, north London after moving back to a form of civilisation from the wilds of Barking, Essex. I was promptly told not to joke about things like that, it was morbid and it wasn’t nice even if it was part of this ‘punk rock thing I was into’. After protesting my innocence, they finally accepted that Elvis Aaron Presley had actually left us that Tuesday night. Me on the other hand, I had moved on fairly quickly if I’m honest with you. Chelsea? You were always on my mind, you were always on my mind.
The following Saturday saw Chelsea play their first game back where we belonged, in Division One. Who would we get in our long-awaited return? Man U? Arsenal? Liverpool? Or perhaps that mob from Three Point Lane? No, it definitely wouldn’t be those so-and-so’s from WHL as they’d managed to get themselves relegated the previous season while we swapped places with them. The footballing Gods were smiling and proving once again that they had a sense of humour on a par with the great comedians of the day, David Jason, Benny Hill and not to mention The Two Ronnies, Corbett and Barker. No, dining at the football’s top table again, we were served up with a first course of West Brom away, losing 3-0 in the process. Oh well, the main course would be better, I’m sure. I licked my lips at the prospect of dinner, only to discover that Birmingham and Coventry at home were being served up before a mouth-watering dessert; Liverpool away in the League Cup. Oh yes, Chelsea were back and it was starting to look good even though we had only managed to notch up a meagre 2 points by beating Birmingham 2-0 thus far.
The journey up to Liverpool that fateful night, my first to the Costa del Merseyside, was largely uneventful until our train approached the north west town of Runcorn. Windows shattered as stones and bricks eventually settled in the aisles and seats as we whistled towards Lime Street, the general consensus being that the locals were, indeed, revolting.
Exiting the cup by losing 2-0, we were instructed in no uncertain terms by the local ‘bizzies’ to walk along Scotland Road, otherwise known locally as Scottie Road, where it seemed we were to become target practice for local youths practising for the local javelin and discus events. Congregating at Lime Street station for our long journey back to Euston, a few seats were initially reserved for our walking-wounded, however it soon became clear that we would need a couple of carriages rather than just a few seats, such was the ferocity of the Scousers efforts to wave us off. DH marshalled proceedings admirably at Lime Street and eventually the first of the hospital trains left the frontline and slowly ambled south to London, the silence only being broken by the occasional “Where are we now? Are we nearly there yet?” and met with a reply of “Crewe. Nowhere near” and “Stafford. No, I’ve never heard of it either” or “Oh, leave it out mate, I’m not getting up again. You’ve only just been to the bog. What’s the matter with ya? Can’t you ‘old it?”
Entering University College Hospital during the early hours of the next morning, near to Euston station, hospital staff worked tirelessly repairing some of the damage caused by the preceding evening’s entertainment. We all clapped for the NHS and it wouldn’t be for the last time.
Ipswich away on the Saturday gave some of us the opportunity to ask fellow fans how they were feeling, none of us it seemed put off being at Portman Road that day despite our war wounds. A 1-0 defeat was all we had to show for our efforts though, this hurting every bit as much as anything suffered 4 nights previously.
As we entered the Scoreboard Paddock at Old Trafford just a couple of weeks later, something had changed. Chelsea fans absolutely packed the sections behind the goal and even more seemed to be entering by the minute. Chelsea here, Chelsea there, Chelsea every…. well, you know how it goes. Bill Garner made our day out one to remember as he scored inside the very first minute or so as Blues fans inside Old Trafford went absolutely ballistic amongst that crowd of 54,764. “Chelsea are back! Chelsea are back! Hello! Hello!”
A small group of West Ham’s finest met us at Euston later that night and asked us if it were true that Chelsea had taken a massive mob up to Manchester for the game? Yes, it was true alright. Well done, they said. “Did that just happen, Mick?” I was asked. Yes, it had.
My Christmas present was just a little late that year as I had to wait until the day after Boxing Day for us to beat the ‘Appee ‘Ammers 2-1 at The Bridge, Tommy Langley and Bill Garner (again) managing to club together and get me exactly what I’d wanted, all this before we went goal-crazy at St. Andrews and beat City 4-5 in a mad game on New Years Eve. It wouldn’t only be a ‘cup of kindness’ that would be drunk at that night’s parties, I can assure you. As we stood there watching the goals absolutely rain in, my attention was drawn to one particular fellow fan who, rather than being noticed for what he was wearing, attracted my attention for what he wasn’t wearing. On this cold day, many had opted for winter coats, indeed Mark wore his sheepskin coat with ‘Chelsea North Stand’ crudely painted on the back in white emulsion. However, this particular fan, no hair in sight, chose to wear a white t-shirt with just a denim waistcoat over it. No jumper. No jacket. No coat. His biceps stood out like the Rolling Hills of the Verdes Peninsula, the t-shirt sleeves bowing out as his muscles came through and declared victory.
“Who is that bloke?”
“Don’t you know him? That’s Kojak. Lovely bloke. Posh as anything but nice with it. Diamond geezer”.
I met him up close at Euston station sometime later, heard him put a copper down in front of his own Sergeant, the apology issued to Kojak being witnessed by many. This was theatre, pure unadulterated pantomime and it was a joy to behold. May you rest in peace, Kojak. You were a character and we need characters.
7th January saw Liverpool come to Stamford Bridge in the 3rd Round of the FA Cup as European Champions after they’d beaten Borussia Monchengladbach in Rome just a few months previously. A massive crowd of 45,449 packed into Stamford Bridge in a defiant and somewhat buoyant mood as we were, according to many in the media, lambs about to be slaughtered. Liverpool only had to turn up and they’d progress to the 4th Round, right? Well, no, not right. We’re Chelsea and we never do things by the book. A thunderous shot from Clive ‘Flasher’ Walker (don’t ask) saw Chelsea take a 1-0 lead before Steve ‘Jock’ Finnieston (ask) and Tommy Langley took The Blues to new heights as we soared into a 3-0 lead. Clive ‘Flasher’ Walker (don’t ask) scored his 2nd of the game to cancel out Liverpool’s first as a goal by Dalglish near the end was nothing more than a sideshow, an irritation and an irrelevance. The lads had beaten the most fancied team in the land and it felt, so, so good. The display of scarves in The Shed that afternoon was something I’ll never forget, all of us singing as one and loving every single blue moment of it. After seeing off Burnley 6-2 in Round 4, normal service was eventually resumed as we went out of the competition to Orient at The Bridge after a replay. We were out but that afternoon against The Reds in Round 3 was lodged in my memory and it’s still there to this very day, probably helped by the fact that I even set up my little tape recorder and recorded the sound of it as it featured on The Big Match the following day. “Shhhh! I’m recording!” I’d hiss as Mum or Dad or someone would enter the room as the tiny tape whirred and rotated to the sound of “He really does look lively, Walker. Driving that one! Oh no! Clemence puts his head in his hands and Clive Walker has scored for Chelsea!” Walk on, walk on, with a mic in your hands.
Playing them again, this time on 4th March in the league, manager Bob Paisley declared that it would be ‘different down there this time’. It was. We won 3-1 instead of 4-2. No wonder they call it the Beautiful Game.
Prior to this game, however, I listened to the following conversation played out by two of Merseyside’s finest on the platform at Victoria underground station as they, and I, waited for the next tube train to take us to the game, both of them studying the coloured lines of a London Underground map that reminded me of how I must have looked when I finally turned over my maths mock exam paper, not really knowing which way up it went:
“What are we waiting on ‘ere, lar?”
“‘We need to wait for the right train that’ll take us to Cheltsea, divvy”
“Is it dis one comin’ in ‘ere den, da red one?”
“No, soft lad! I told yer! We need to wait for a green one that goes to Fulham ******* Broadway, this one’s red and da map says we need a flippin’ green one, soft lad! Lar, only green trains go to Cheltsea, ya divvy!”
I almost helped out but I needed to get ready for the end of our season, just 62 days away. You know how it is, right? They may still be down there, waiting on a green District Line train and wondering why they’ve waited so long. It would’ve been quicker to walk. Walk on. Walk on.
