My old Chelsea is exactly that… old, very old. Ancient and stretching back to the dim and distant past, the year being 1957. Imagine, if you will, a small lad visiting the Bridge for the first time, clinging to his Dad’s hand for dear life and in danger of being swept away in a sea of humanity on leaving the ground, feet not even touching it, floating on euphoric memories of the previous ninety minutes, yet caught amidst supporters eager to get home, uncaring of consequence. Want it back? Sure I do, but not because it was a superior adrenalin rush to that obtained when watching Dennis score in the San Siro, or to that when seeing Frank glide through Bolton’s defence in search of our first Premiership title. Let me explain further…
Back then, if you had called those Fifties fans ‘plastic‘ they would have thanked you kindly for the implied association with modernity and doffed a cap in your direction. A decade on and clinging to a Wembley terrace vantage point as we faced Spurs in the FA Cup, you could hear the letters in that word being delicately rearranged, then spat out venomously at rival supporters to denote their physical state. The backcloth to the game in general was changing, we were losing the match and a punch-up awaited defeat, as if it were a panacea for frustration rather than the embodiment of it. But, lest we forget, this too was some fans ’old Chelsea’ and I have no doubt the generation concerned hankers after it nostalgically, much like a Crespo curler into the top corner in the last minute, or a Poyet hitch-kicked effort to the roof of the net, after a lobbed pass from Zola.
Affirmation and adulation of this era’s status duly arrived with defeat of Leeds and belated FA Cup glory, yet in the decades that followed, from Ron Suart and a 26% win ratio to Glen Hoddle and his 34 percent’s worth, not much disturbed each new generation’s appraisal of his Chels through rose-tinted glasses, perched as they were on noses only ever having had one sniff of trophy success in their lifetime - unless you were later to include a John Neal (41%) promotion season or a Bobby Campbell (46%) tilt at the title. Asked now, I’ll wager that they’ll want their ‘old Chelsea’ back too, without giving even a moment‘s thought to Ruud, Gianluca, Jose, Guus, Carlo and Roberto, all still to come crashing through the glass ceiling holding back our foreign trophy winners. Trophies that, for many, will never alter a mind‘s eye forever bathed in nostalgia. For them only moments exist, much like Robben’s skinning of a Newcastle defence and Duffer’s dumping a third past Barcelona.
So, here we are, the lot of us, each generation bemoaning the current lot, this ‘lot’ known as Roman [plus advisers] to the reverent and Russian pillock to the peeved, or perhaps that’s just the one poster epitomising in a single descriptive word the level to which we have all sunk in our great depth of despair and parlous debate. Yes, here we are, each of us recalling his own special days of no whine and joses, the only common denominator being a desire to rid ourselves of what we have endured right here, right now, hurtling in a hell bent rush towards what we want as fans who are, undeniably, irrefutably, entitled. And, jeez, are we entitled, especially after all we’ve been through in recent years and most certainly because we, more than any previous generation, recognise meltdown when we see it. Sense it, don’t you, much like a Drogba header powering to the back of the Arse net at the new Wembley, or an Essien bullet ricocheting in off a Barca crossbar.
Indeed, I think it is incumbent upon all of us to cast an envious glance in the direction of anyone whose ’old Chelsea’ sprang into vitriolic life for the very first time only in the last few months. Carefree or not, whoever they may be, they cannot have started with any lower level of expectation of anything, or anyone, involved with our club. Rafa Benitez, for instance, is an FSW and there can be no doubting the fans desire to get rid of him, along with every other ill known to mankind, most [the assumption must surely be] stemming from a string-pulling Russian puppet master. This generation could easily look back on a start to Chelsea-loving life and hail it as the sea change of a century - the time when fans themselves influenced failure, mimicking a film set director creating his own snuff ‘em out movie.
Moreover, it seems to be all going to plan so far. Struggling to qualify for the Champions League? Who cares, as long as the Interim is gone tomorrow and we get our ’old Chelsea’ back. Roman Abramovich in talks over a possible sale of CFC? Bring it on and while you’re at it bring Uncle Ken along too - loved those days, didn’t you? Falcao didn’t want to sign in January because of the turmoil and now we can’t even attract Peter Odemwinge to the car park, never mind the pitch? What’s the problem, aren’t we on the brink of getting our ’old Chelsea’ back? Nope, thinking about it I can’t see one either, so let’s stop wondering where the next player’s coming from and start planning for a future without….. well, virtually everything we’ve had under Roman Abramovich, much like the last two seasons of Mata magic, the current Oscar cameos and all those David Luiz distractions - don’t you just love him, I know I do and I’ll be sad to see him go.
Then again, mere mention of these three, in terms of possibly losing them in the maelstrom of revolution, might concern some, but not the brave, the principled, or those that want their ’old Chelsea’ back. Therefore, no matter no Mata and an uncertain future, the only remaining important issue requiring attention has to be new leadership - and that is already being addressed under another topic. Not a stalking horse for repetitious posturing, as I had assumed and feared at first, we now see Seb Coe’s name go forward more as a genuine cry for help, financial as opposed to administrative or speed-driven. It was a thought that definitely counted, but sadly, significantly more than his money would do.
Still, he may be prepared to be just a factotum, pulling together some kind of consortium and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always a Glazer-type debt package to fall back on. Okay, that scenario wouldn’t end in a return to my ’old Chelsea’, nor I suspect yours, but it’s bound to be somebody’s…. so let’s go for it, shall we?
Back then, if you had called those Fifties fans ‘plastic‘ they would have thanked you kindly for the implied association with modernity and doffed a cap in your direction. A decade on and clinging to a Wembley terrace vantage point as we faced Spurs in the FA Cup, you could hear the letters in that word being delicately rearranged, then spat out venomously at rival supporters to denote their physical state. The backcloth to the game in general was changing, we were losing the match and a punch-up awaited defeat, as if it were a panacea for frustration rather than the embodiment of it. But, lest we forget, this too was some fans ’old Chelsea’ and I have no doubt the generation concerned hankers after it nostalgically, much like a Crespo curler into the top corner in the last minute, or a Poyet hitch-kicked effort to the roof of the net, after a lobbed pass from Zola.
Affirmation and adulation of this era’s status duly arrived with defeat of Leeds and belated FA Cup glory, yet in the decades that followed, from Ron Suart and a 26% win ratio to Glen Hoddle and his 34 percent’s worth, not much disturbed each new generation’s appraisal of his Chels through rose-tinted glasses, perched as they were on noses only ever having had one sniff of trophy success in their lifetime - unless you were later to include a John Neal (41%) promotion season or a Bobby Campbell (46%) tilt at the title. Asked now, I’ll wager that they’ll want their ‘old Chelsea’ back too, without giving even a moment‘s thought to Ruud, Gianluca, Jose, Guus, Carlo and Roberto, all still to come crashing through the glass ceiling holding back our foreign trophy winners. Trophies that, for many, will never alter a mind‘s eye forever bathed in nostalgia. For them only moments exist, much like Robben’s skinning of a Newcastle defence and Duffer’s dumping a third past Barcelona.
So, here we are, the lot of us, each generation bemoaning the current lot, this ‘lot’ known as Roman [plus advisers] to the reverent and Russian pillock to the peeved, or perhaps that’s just the one poster epitomising in a single descriptive word the level to which we have all sunk in our great depth of despair and parlous debate. Yes, here we are, each of us recalling his own special days of no whine and joses, the only common denominator being a desire to rid ourselves of what we have endured right here, right now, hurtling in a hell bent rush towards what we want as fans who are, undeniably, irrefutably, entitled. And, jeez, are we entitled, especially after all we’ve been through in recent years and most certainly because we, more than any previous generation, recognise meltdown when we see it. Sense it, don’t you, much like a Drogba header powering to the back of the Arse net at the new Wembley, or an Essien bullet ricocheting in off a Barca crossbar.
Indeed, I think it is incumbent upon all of us to cast an envious glance in the direction of anyone whose ’old Chelsea’ sprang into vitriolic life for the very first time only in the last few months. Carefree or not, whoever they may be, they cannot have started with any lower level of expectation of anything, or anyone, involved with our club. Rafa Benitez, for instance, is an FSW and there can be no doubting the fans desire to get rid of him, along with every other ill known to mankind, most [the assumption must surely be] stemming from a string-pulling Russian puppet master. This generation could easily look back on a start to Chelsea-loving life and hail it as the sea change of a century - the time when fans themselves influenced failure, mimicking a film set director creating his own snuff ‘em out movie.
Moreover, it seems to be all going to plan so far. Struggling to qualify for the Champions League? Who cares, as long as the Interim is gone tomorrow and we get our ’old Chelsea’ back. Roman Abramovich in talks over a possible sale of CFC? Bring it on and while you’re at it bring Uncle Ken along too - loved those days, didn’t you? Falcao didn’t want to sign in January because of the turmoil and now we can’t even attract Peter Odemwinge to the car park, never mind the pitch? What’s the problem, aren’t we on the brink of getting our ’old Chelsea’ back? Nope, thinking about it I can’t see one either, so let’s stop wondering where the next player’s coming from and start planning for a future without….. well, virtually everything we’ve had under Roman Abramovich, much like the last two seasons of Mata magic, the current Oscar cameos and all those David Luiz distractions - don’t you just love him, I know I do and I’ll be sad to see him go.
Then again, mere mention of these three, in terms of possibly losing them in the maelstrom of revolution, might concern some, but not the brave, the principled, or those that want their ’old Chelsea’ back. Therefore, no matter no Mata and an uncertain future, the only remaining important issue requiring attention has to be new leadership - and that is already being addressed under another topic. Not a stalking horse for repetitious posturing, as I had assumed and feared at first, we now see Seb Coe’s name go forward more as a genuine cry for help, financial as opposed to administrative or speed-driven. It was a thought that definitely counted, but sadly, significantly more than his money would do.
Still, he may be prepared to be just a factotum, pulling together some kind of consortium and, if the worst comes to the worst, there is always a Glazer-type debt package to fall back on. Okay, that scenario wouldn’t end in a return to my ’old Chelsea’, nor I suspect yours, but it’s bound to be somebody’s…. so let’s go for it, shall we?
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