Bionic

Chelsea v Watford

Saturday 11^th November

I’d got tickets and thought that maybe silver membership wasn’t going to be too bad. Who’d wanted to see us lose 3-0 at Arsenal anyway? Still, at £48 and £20 for a 12-year-old, maybe there wasn’t such great demand for a seat in the Upper Shed at Stamford Bridge, my first visit to the stadium. I met Joss at Euston and we headed for Fulham Broadway. Joss couldn’t see us winning, adding that just scoring would be alright. Agreement was my inclination. We walked from the station up past the built-in bars and hotel and knew we were seeing how the other half lives. This was all built pre-Chelski, too.

Our fans were in good voice, not too bothered that the MC couldn’t pronounce the names of Bouazza or Demerit, and mocking those below us to our right with their quietness. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of something. It also brought back a memory of the first time I saw us play Chelsea at home (Feb 9^th 1980 in the old Division 2), when away fans stood in the old Rookery and Chelsea brought enough to make it our highest attendance of the season. Those fans were loud. I remember them belting out “we shall not be moved” at some point through their 3-2 win over us. It was intimidating (to a 10 year old).

Today, there was a whiff of inevitability from the kick-off. The Golden Boys resisted well for twenty-five minutes or so but Drogba got two in ten minutes spanning the half-hour and Chelsea, flowing while we fitted and started, went in 2-0 up at half-time with Cech in their goal hardly troubled. I poured hot chocolate from the flask I bought this morning and Joss and I took it in turns to use the cup, not too cold and enjoying the atmosphere. The second half was more of the same and the full-time 4-0 was deserved. We weren’t awful but they are a bigger, faster, more skilful side. There are even ways in which you could argue that they are still an English football club.

In the summer of 1982 I represented my school at the Watford and District Schools’ Athletics Association Games. It is the pinnacle of my individual sporting career, though my best moments in a competitive team sport were in house rugby, of which more tomorrow. The point about the day I came 2^nd in the pole-vault (I still have the pink certificate) is that I recognised Steve Sims and Nigel Callaghan sitting on the grassy banks that were terraces and went over to speak to the Watford stars. I asked how well we could do in our first season in the top flight and was disappointed by their failure to match my fantasises of success. We’ll be happy to stay up, was the message. I was right, too. Anyway, the point is it was a local club for local people. You know the line.

It is almost pointless to repeat that Abramovitch’s money bought Chelsea successive Premiership titles. It doesn’t hurt to remind ourselves where that money comes from. To suggest the redistribution of so many of the people’s oilfields into the hands of a single man must have involved something most of us would recognise as immoral seems obvious. Russia’s transition to capitalism meant a massive transferral of wealth to those with connections or willing to be criminally ruthless. The club exists in the image of its funder. Russia’s poor meanwhile, especially the old, think of the days of the secret police as idyllic.

There was a ridiculous wait for the station so we jumped onto a no. 14 bus crawling towards the centre and sat across from a guy swearing above his breath about the pace we were moving. I’m sure he held it against us for playing Chelsea when he had a time limit to sort something out with Playstations. We abandoned the bus at South Kensington by the Science, V&A and Natural History museums and got on the Piccadilly Line, changed at Green Park and got the light blue line to Euston, where we had a sandwich before Joss got on a fast train to be picked up his mum and Phil and Trevor.