The alarm clock on my mobile rang. I was surprised. Why was I using my mobile as an alarm? I reached out and looked at the time. It said 06.00.

Why was I in an unfamiliar room? Suddenly I realised I was in Stuttgart and in less than two hours I was going to be on a train to Munich to watch my beloved Chelsea play in the Champions League Final.

The previous day’s beer-garden tour had tired me out. We should have been taking it easy instead of walking several miles. I hauled myself out of the little bed and headed for the bathroom for the first major hurdle of the day-washing and drying my hair ahead of getting it into it’s lucky bun. The small hairdryer in the bathroom proved unexpectedly efficient, and the bun went up first time; a lucky omen, I thought.

By the time I had dressed (black vest, Chelsea shirt, pink hoodie, jeans) and hurled my belongings into my holdall, it was 06.40. The party had agreed to meet in the breakfast room at 06.45. I was down at 06.42. Somewhat to my surprise, I was the first one down. I decided not to hang around and helped myself to coffee and cereals. A couple of minutes later Matt appeared, looking a little fragile, followed by Pick Six, on whom the previous day’s drinking had taken its toll. Matt said that Steve was doing his hair too.

By 7am the whole squad, including Steve, were making inroads to the buffet. I decided that after the cereals and coffee, I really couldn’t face anything else but a yogurt. About to pull the lid off, I noticed something. The brand name was “FRANKENLAND” – Frank? As in Lampard? My mind went back seven years to Chelsea winning the league at Bolton, when hoardings behind the goal advertised “Franking Sense”. Could this possibly be a similar omen?

Breakfast finished, we handed over our keys and departed the hotel for the short walk over to the Hauptbahnhof. The station was pretty deserted and the train wasn’t due for 25 minutes. Dazza and Mrs A. wandered off to fetch coffee and snacks for the journey. A combination of yesterday’s alcohol and cuisine was leading Pick Six to create what can best be described as “gas incidents”. The rest of us mooched about.

Finally, some ten minutes before the scheduled departure, and with more people now on the platform, including a number of Bayern fans, the train arrived. We located our seats and settled down for the journey. As the train made its way smoothly out of Stuttgart, the landscape changed from modern cityscape into woods and countryside, and as we sped through Bavaria, we passed towns with the typical red roofs and cream walls which probably originated prior to late 19th century German federation. The sun shone, and I got the ipod out for some house and disco before listening to what @mowingmeadows describes as the winning playlist – Three Little Birds and The Liquidator.

The train made three stops en route, each time picking up more and more Bayern fans, before arriving in Munich just after 10.00 as advertised. The noise at the railway station was colossal. Air horns were being blown, and groups of Bayern fans were singing “WHO THE FUCK ARE CHELSEA LONDON!!” (a refrain we were to hear a lot of throughout the day). We gathered ourselves together on the concourse.

Our plan was to locate the hire lockers in the station and leave our luggage there. It had also been thought a good idea to purchase some refreshments and nourishing snacks for the return train journey that five of us would be making to Stuttgart at the unearthly hour of 03.25. We found the lockers and stashed the bags. Pick Six decided to absent himself at that point to use the facilities. We hung around by the escalators waiting for him to return.

Quite a long wait actually, until he returned with the look of a man at peace with the world, and providing too much information about his time on the lav. We then visited Munich’s answer to Whistle Stop and returned to the lockers to discover, to our collective anguish, that we’d have to pay another 3 Euros to re-open and re-close them. However, that done, Munich was our oyster, and, leaving Dazza and Mrs A to check-in at the hotel they had booked for the night, the remaining six of us headed for the famous Augustiner Keller which wasn’t too far from the station.

Notwithstanding the fact that it wasn’t 11.00 yet, the beer garden was open, and we negotiated with a traditionally dressed, albeit slightly surly, waitress to let us have a large table until 5pm. Originally I had tried to book a table indoors, in case there was a problem with the weather, but their 1000 seater capacity had already been filled when I had emailed them at the start of the week. We sat down, and the boys ordered a steiner each.

I had Orangina. Half a litre of it. Decided I’d probably eke it out for a couple of hours. So we sat there under the chestnut trees in the warm Munich sun. Just after 12, we decided it was time to think about lunch. I chose red snapper, Mr E. had the nine sausage platter, and the rest of the boys ordered half a chicken, or hendl as it’s called, which caused us some merriment, especially as I started chanting

“Who put the ball in the Tottenham net?
Arfur, Arfur
Who put the ball in the Tottenham net?
Arfur ***ing hendl!”

The food arrived and was perfectly edible, and just after another party of my friends arrived for a drink, followed shortly after by Dazza and Mrs A. The beer garden was filling up fast, although Chelsea were heavily outnumbered by Bayern fans. However, everyone was in a marvellously happy, friendly mood and if I’m being honest there was something refreshing about sitting there in a civilised fashion, with the home fans everyone having a drink and a laugh.

Speaking of which, I decided it was now time to have an alcoholic drink. “Wodka Lemon?” I asked our surly waitress hopefully. “Nein”, she replied. I settled for 20cl of pinot grigot, which meant I’d have to be careful. And it was served in a mug. Not even a glass. About 14.30, the oompah band arrived and, after playing a local song which all the Bayern fans sang, they turned to our table and struck up “God Save The Queen”. We got to our feet and sang with all our hearts. The noise volume around the garden was increasing and the Munichers massively outnumbered Chelsea fans.

Although we’d told the garden we’d stay till five, Steve had had word from a friend in town that he was in the Marienplatz, and we decided that we would head off about 16.00. We called for der rechnung and the usual lively discussion took place as to who had consumed what.

Just as we were leaving, we met our mate Seb going in, who took little persuasion to accompany us to the Marienplatz, and further down the road we met Darren Mantle of The ChelseaFanCast fame, who was heading to the Augustiner to meet his twin Steve and Ross Mooring from the fancast, who had arrived shortly before we left. We decided to get on a tram back to the Hauptbahnhof to take advantage of the free travel for matchgoers. However, we got into a tangle around the station’s complicated underground/S-bahn complex, and after milling around for a while, we eventually found our tube train thanks to a German Chelsea fan.

The Marienplatz was absolutely heaving, and we headed over towards Bohne and Malz, the bar where Steve’s friend had said he’d be. Everyone else dived into the express bar, where pints were on tap, but that wasn’t much good to me, so I wandered off down to the arcade in the hope of finding something more to my liking. And I found a divine little bar where they were selling vodka and sprite to take away, which made me very happy. When I got back, the rest of the class were still hanging around the front of Bohne and Malz, but we could see a little courtyard which appeared to lead into a residential block, which had tables and benches.

After the short but very hot journey from Augustiner Keller, we were happy to have a drink and sat down. I’d suggested moving off at 18.00 to give us plenty of time to get to the ground, as there was the possibility of not getting on the first U-bahn, but eventually we all compromised on 18.45. The Marienplatz was still heaving, and the U-bahn was crowded.

When we got down to the platform, it was to a heaving mass of humanity. We lost Mr. E. and Steve, although the rest of us managed to stick together. In fact we were quite lucky to be at the back of the crush. One train came on and we couldn’t get on it. There was a 10 minute wait. Another (empty) train came in and didn’t stop. After another 10 minutes, a train which would get us part of the way to the ground arrived but it would mean a change five stops on.

People heaved themselves bodily on to the train. It was incredibly hot. The train kept stopping. It took about 20 minutes to travel five stops and we were relieved to get off at (Municher Freiheit). I had a pleasant surprise as I found myself standing next to two friends from the CIU where I drink on matchdays. My only fear was that when the next train came in, it would be even fuller, and we’d have another wait. It was about 19.30 by this time and although the game wasn’t starting till 20.45, I was starting to fret about the possibility of missing the kick-off. However, much to our surprise, the next train that came in was an empty, air conditioned heaven, and the remainder of the journey was comfortable.

We got off the train in high good humour. As we came out of the station, the vastness of the stadium became apparent and I realised, this is it. We are here. And we are playing in the final. Mrs A. had managed to get separated from Dazza on the way out of the stadium, so she accompanied me and my CIU friends on what was a fairly long walk to the ground. We arrived at a little merchandising area where I stopped to get a programme and, after fairly light security checks, Mrs A. and I made our way around the stadium to the entrance for our adjoining blocks in the middle tier. Just as we were nearly there, I heard a booming Irish voice calling “Blue Baby” (see, it does help to have your name on your shirt) and my joy for the day was complete or so I thought, as my favourite Bruvvas from Dublin hoved into view. They’d been drinking at the Shakespeare in town, and filled me in on what they’d been up to, and vice versa, as they knew all of my travelling companions.

Once inside the ground, it was time to visit the facilities as kick off was now only some 20 minutes away. I found my seat towards the back of the middle tier. The stadium was a breathtaking sight. Bayern had a huge advantage in numbers, and as the opera singer Jonas Kaufmann bellowed his way through a new version of the champions league anthem (although it later turned out he’d been miming due to a respiratory infection which has caused him to pull out of his engagement at Covent Garden this week), the Bayern fans lifted cards which spelt out the slogan “our team, our stadium, our trophy”. We defiantly waved our flags in return.

Just before 20.45, the teams emerged from the dressing room into a frenzied stadium. Tens of thousands of words have been written about what happened next and I can’t imagine I’ll improve upon any that have been penned before. From my own point of view, the first 45 minutes seemed to last about 10. The team were holding their nerve on the pitch, even if it was already squeaky bum time in the stands, with Mikel putting in a superb performance. I was slightly miffed by the fact that having paid a hundred and thirty odd pounds for a seat in an attempt to save my wonky knees, I was still having to stand, and a plan was starting to formulate in my mind.

As soon as the half time whistle blew, I headed for downstairs to the Ladies and then to the bar for much-needed water. Coming away after making my purchase, I met Dazza and Mrs A., who’d managed to locate each other. “Dazz”, I asked. “Are they checking people’s tickets going into the lower tier?” No, he replied. “Right”, I said. “I’m relocating”. Because I’d decided that if I was going to have to stand for the second half, I might as well sneak into the lower tier and be with my mates. And as I reached the ninth row of the lower tier, not only did I find Mr E., Matt, Steve, H. and Pick Six, but yards away in the next block were the Bruvvas, Mrs A. who’d obviously made the same decision as me, and a host of other friends, including The Former Mr Baby.

The second half kicked off and sped by in similar fashion to the first. Then, on 83 minutes, disaster as Muller headed down, and the ball looped over Petr Cech. The Bayern end roared in delight. The Chelsea end were stunned into silence. With just seven minutes left, was it going to be yet more heartbreak in a European final? Optimist as I am, I couldn’t see how this was going to end well. I was resigning myself to defeat. Then, on 88 minutes, a miracle. Juan Mata’s corner was met by Didier Drogba, who powerfully headed the ball past Neuer, the Bayern keeper. The Chels support behind the goal erupted in ecstasy. I stood there whilst the rest of the crew jumped on top of me. When I emerged I subsequently found H. jumping on top of the seat back of the row in front and, fearful for his safety, I clung on to the waistband of his jeans until he jumped back down.

Five minutes later, we were going into extra time. Just three minutes later, we were staring disaster firmly in the face again. Drogba’s silly trip on Ribery resulted in a pen to Bayern. I said to the gang “Face it boys, we are not going to be allowed to win this”. Ribery had gone down as if presented with a teenage girl and required several minutes of treatment before the penalty could be taken. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and I resorted to prayer. Three Hail Marys, a Hail Holy Queen and a Memorarie, just finishing as Robben prepared to shoot and I put my right hand to my right eye – the “evil eye”. Seconds later, we were screaming in joy again as Cech got down low, blocked the ball with his thigh and then smothered it.

Half time in extra time led to another exodus to the bar for water before another nerve-wracking 15 minutes, of which I remember very little. I think that night was the first time I have ever been petrified with nerves whilst being in a stadium. Then it was all over. It was coming down to penalties. Again. We were in God’s/deity of choice’s hands now. We watched on in disbelief as it appeared that Bayern weren’t only being allowed to take the first pen, but to take them at the home end. We waited….

Cech was unlucky not to save the first, and we found ourselves one down. Mata, to my disbelief given his record this season, strode up to take the second. And missed. Gomez scored his. We were two down. Luiz put us back in with a chance following his quality penality. Neuer, the goalie, bravely took the third. Frank converted; 3-2. Then Olic – who missed. We were definitely in with a chance. Another quality pen from Ash. 3-3. Schweinsteiger stepped up, only to hit the post.

It all rested on Didier’s shoulders. I murmured to myself “This ends. Now.” Time stood still as Drogs prepared a perilously short-looking run-up.

A moment’s silence.

Didier struck the ball.

Neuer went the wrong way.

We had won.

In that one moment, our world and our club’s history and future had changed forever. I simply stood there, tears pouring down my face. I found myself being hugged by the boys. I went across to rejoice with the Bruvvas. Then I found myself face to face with The Former Mr Baby. Both in tears, we simply enfolded each other in a long hug. I then went right down to the front of the stand in the hope of getting some precious pictures and found myself next to H. I said to him “Could you ever have thought, that night in Naples, that this would be the conclusion?” (but that’s another Travels). His reply was drowned out as the players began to climb the stairs to collect their medals and the precious trophy.

The next half hour or so will live forever in the memories of all Chelsea fans. Luiz on the crossbar. Torres on the crossbar. Stamford the Lion on the pitch. The players with the trophy. Blue is the Colour, The Liquidator, One Step Beyond in a glorious segue. People in tears. People looking at their watches (it was now after midnight and it was going to be a tight schedule for those on day trips). I realised we’d be on the train back to Stuttgart in just three and a half hours.

Eventually, hoarse and exhausted, we dragged ourselves away from the arena, laden with flags, back on to the concourse. We decided to have a post match water/coke and use the loos prior to setting off for the U-bahn. I suggested to Mr E. that given the lateness of the hour, the original plan to return to the Marienplatz wasn’t viable (this turned out to be prophetic). I met more friends coming down from the middle tier, and the bars were showing the game again. About 00.40, we set off for the U-bahn.

It had felt like a long walk to the stadium before the game. After, it felt like an eternity. When we got to the entrance, we found that there were many thousands of people still waiting to get on trains. We were quite lucky to heave ourselves (except for Pick Six, Steve and Matt) on to a train which was arriving, but this was the start of a nightmare journey.

However tough the journey out had seemed, it was paradise compared to the hour or so it took to get back to Marienplatz. The train kept stopping in tunnels. Passengers, already weary, were feeling the heat. Some got off when next stations were reached in the hope of finding taxis. Those with flights in the early hours on club/day trips were particularly anxious. My knees were shot to pieces.

Finally we reached Marienplatz, only to find ourselves with another long wait for a train. Eventually, about 02.00, we reached Hauptbahnhof. On the “Up” escalator into the station, I’d noticed something called “Rail and Clean”, which were presumably the loos that Pick Six had visited that morning. I made a note to return for a wash and brush up after I’d picked up the bag. We bade farewell to Dazza and Mrs A. who were off to their hotel. We were still missing Pick Six but texted to say we’d arrived at the station. Disappointed Bayern fans were milling about the concourse, but we were touched to be approached by several, offering their congratulations. They truly are an exceptional bunch of fans. After we collected the luggage, I told Mr E. that I was going to the loos to try and get changed, and made my way back down the escalator.

I paid the required Euro to enter the facility and before popping into a loo, a sign caught my eye. It wasn’t just loos they had, but showers. I went to the desk and asked the attendant how much for a shower. 7 Euros, he replied. With towels? I enquired. Fourteen Euros, came the reply. If he’d said 20, I’d have probably paid up at that point after the long, hot, travel weary 22 hours. He heaved a positive bundle of linen into my arms and unlocked the shower room. It was bliss. There was even a plug socket. I could have washed my hair, if only I’d had a dryer with me.

After the lovely shower, I got changed into blissful fresh clothes, and made my way to the platform, where I found Pick Six, Mr E. and H. propped against a bin, all seeming to be asleep. All over the station the scene was reminiscent of some major disaster. People slumped in heaps. Puddles of vomit. Discarded rubbish. Fifteen minutes later, the train arrived. There was a fearful scrum to board. We couldn’t locate our carriage. Mr E. and I became separated from the others. There were no seats to be had in the carriage we’d ended up in. People were occupying other peoples’ booked seats. I said to Mr E. that having already spent upwards of seven hours on my feet, I couldn’t stand for another two and a half, in line with my knee specialist’s mantra of no running, no kneeling and no standing for long periods. The decrepit joints were already making themselves known in no uncertain terms.

A gallant Chelsea fan kindly overheard and a seat was found for me. I slumped into it, exhausted. I rested my hot head against the cool window and waited for the clock to roll round to the departure hour of 03.25. I hoped to sleep, but failed. 03.25 arrived. The train appeared to be delayed. The minutes ticked by. Announcements were made in German. A fracas threatened to break out when a German passenger (who wasn’t a football fan) actually sat on a female passenger (not me) who was in his seat. It was firmly explained to him that none of us could get to our reserved seats. He was cordially invited to get off the lady or suffer the consequences. He desisted, but continued to verbally protest. Some passengers left the train. A friendly Bayern fan explained that under German law, a train cannot commence it’s journey if passengers were standing (good job that doesn’t happen in the UK…)

Finally, just before 04.00, an announcement to this effect was made in English, and passengers without seat reservations were requested to leave to enable others to take their correct seats. I got up and said to Mr E. ‘”let’s get out of here into our correct carriage, and if anyone’s in our seats, we boot them out”. He kindly hauled my holdall down from the shelf and we set off for the promised land of Wagon 25 where we did indeed locate our seats, with people already in them. The situation was explained, and they left without argument.

The carriage was comfortable and air-conditioned. We’d been sitting there for about 10 minutes, when Pick Six and H., having walked though the train, found us. The snacks and soft drinks bought the previous morning were shared out. Matt was last to arrive. Then, finally, an hour after the schedule departure time, the train rolled into life. “Wave bye bye to the Augustiner Keller” instructed Mr E. as the train left the station. Obediently, we waved wistfully. The dawn was already starting to break over Bavaria. The boys slept. I remained wakeful, not particularly wanting to fall asleep and end up in Dortmund, for where the train was eventually bound.

At Stuttgart I woke them and we staggered off. Breakfast was a burger from a well-known chain that isn’t McDonalds for the lads, with me eating some fruit, pastries and drinking Viennese coffee. We said goodbye to Matt as he wasn’t travelling back till the evening and fancied another crack at Zum Paulaner. We boarded the S-bahn back to the airport and arrived for our flight some four hours early. Pick Six and H. soon fell asleep in the departure lounge. I read and drank coffee, having declined the champagne that Mr E. had so kindly offered me. We blessed those reserved Germanwings seats and boarded, exhausted. Unusually for me, I fell asleep on the plane and twice woke up dribbling.

And that’s the end really. We bade each other farewell at Heathrow, me to head for the tube home, too exhausted to attend the parade, the boys waiting for a lift. And writing about the trip fills me with a certain melancholy because I know that whatever Chelsea achieve in future, be any trip never so uncomfortable as that to Munich was in parts, we will never again have what we had for those few days. A sense of living in epoch-making times, living history, not reliving it. So thanks to everyone involved in those magical few days, and thanks to our team, for making our dreams come true.

This night had it all. There was hope. There was despair. There were tears. There was joy. And that was just the three and a half hours after the game it took from the time we got on the U-bahn until the time the 03.25 Munich to Stuttgart express departed Hauptbahnhof. At 04.25. But most of all it was a night at the end of which, for all those who travelled to Munich, we will never be able to hear the words “German” and “efficiency” without uttering a hollow laugh.

So as Julie Andrews says, let’s start at the beginning. Despite many of the advance party setting out for Munich as early as Wednesday, my own little group were leaving on Friday, heading for Munich via an overnight stay in Stuttgart, and I was up at the unearthly hour of 04.20, having managed five hours sleep; a pretty good effort. Dawn had already broken as I left my north London home, and so worried was I about missing connections, that I was at the bus stop for the first stage of the journey a chilly 10 minutes early. However, it was only 10 minutes to Kings Cross, leaving me in good time for the first Piccadilly Line train of the day to Heathrow, at 05.37.

Not having even had a coffee, I regretted there just wasn’t time to grab one from McD’s before I boarded the tube. Or so I thought. Because the 05.37 was evidently cancelled, leaving a score of disgruntled travellers on the platform till 05.49 (the time the next train was due), with no information from control as to why the first train was cancelled. After that, however, it was plain sailing to Terminals 1,2,3 and I reached Security by 7am, and having taken all possible precautions to avoid setting off the dreaded alarms, fairly zipped through. I hadn’t yet received word that my travelling companions had arrived, so nipped into World Duty Free to pick up a couple of things and then headed over to what looked like a fairly upmarket Wetherspoons. And lo and behold, the first thing I did see were Mr E. and H. (who have both made a previous appearances in Travels) and Pick Six, a season ticket holder of many years standing, who doesn’t get into Europe very often. We were to be joined on the flight by Dazza A. (also with previous form) and the lovely Mrs A., and when we reached Stuttgart would be joined by Matt and Steve who were hacking their way in via Frankfurt and Paris respectively. The boys had just ordered their breakfast, so I beckoned the waiter, having decided that porridge, toast and coffee would provide a nutritious and slow-release start prior to lunch in Stuttgart. Dazza and Mrs A. then arrived, and Dazza quickly departed for Dixons, being in need of a new camera. The boys were already drinking beer, but that wasn’t part of my plan so I started with a juice.

We’d been agreeably surprised that Germanwings let you choose a seat without charge on checking in, thus avoiding the usual budget airline rush for the gate, so we sauntered down to the departure lounge and boarded in a leisurely fashion. It was a short flight to Stuttgart and we soon found ourselves on the S-bahn to the main railway station, and on arrival headed straight for the nearby hotel we were booked in for the night. Whilst checking in (a somewhat laborious process), Matt arrived, but there was bad news from Steve. His flight into Paris had been delayed, and he’d missed the connection. However, he was being put on the next flight and hoped to be with us by mid-afternoon.

As readers will recall from the Copenhagen edition, Mr E. loves his beer. And to that end he had drawn up a tour of beer gardens and halls. I wasn’t really bothered as it wasn’t the day of the match and I wasn’t planning to drink before evening anyway, so we set off for the first venue, the Schlossgarten, which was conveniently located next to the train station. It was 13.30 now, so having had breakfast just after 07.00, it was time for lunch. And as well as huge steiners of beer, the Schlossgarten did a pretty good feed, with even picky semi-veggies (no red meat) like me catered for, and I opted for kartoffeln (potato wedges) with salad. And very good it was too. We sat around for a couple of hours eating, drinking and chatting. We were also waiting for Steve, who had gone to his hostel to leave his bag, but was having difficulty in finding us. So we set off for the Nil Cafe, further down the Schlossgarten. Dazza’s phone rang again and he wandered off, followed by H. Pick Six and Mr E. had steamed on ahead, leaving Mrs A and myself to meander quietly down the park. In the distance we could see Dazza and H. standing around, so we decided to wait…then Dazza started waving his arms expansively around in the air. Mrs A and I kept our eyes fixed on the horizon and….yes! A third figure was hoving into view. Steve had finally made it to the Schlossgarten.

After saying hello, we trundled down to the Nil Bar, which was attractively situated by a lake. The weather forecast for Friday in Stuttgart had predicted rain, but although it had clouded over since our arrival, it was still warm, and perfect for sitting outdoors. I was kept going with the coffee, but everyone else sank another couple of steiners. About 17.30, we decided it was time to move off to the next venue, which was called the Platzhirsch and, on passing through the bar part of the complex, Pick Six, Mr E. and Mrs A shot off into what appeared to be a dance hall. Mr E and Mrs A. partook of a waltz, and Mr Six cut some serious solo moves. All of which have been captured for posterity on video by me. Something else captured for posterity in a slightly more juvenile style was the arse-kicking competition on the way to the U-bahn, but I think it’s best to draw a veil over that.

After some hesitation over the route to the next bar, we eventually found ourselves in a very pleasant pedestrianised square, and sat down to order. As it was 18.00 by now, I was going to have a drink – rather unfortunately for such a beer-orientated trip, vodka is my tipple of choice, as regular readers will recall. Having not eaten for nearly four hours, I also ordered some olives and bread by way of a pre-dinner appetiser to share with the others, although Steve and H. fancied chips, which came with rather vinegary ketchup, reminiscent of Crosse & Blackwell. We decided to have one more drink before dinner, and I saw that cocktails were available, so I chose a White Russian. Pick Six’s eyes lit up, and, being fond of them, decided to have one too. We were starting to get decidedly merry by this time, and, having settled the bill, set off for the final venue, the Zum Paulaner, whose famous beer came highly recommended by my Leipzig-based nephew.

As we wandered off to the Calvinstrasse, we felt the first drops of rain fall. I used my maps to cover my head. We appeared to have lost Dazza and Mrs A, who’d probably wandered off for a romantic dinner. The rest of us scurried into a pleasant looking inn and were greeted by a traditionally-dressed Frau, who led us off to a comfortable table. A glance at the menu ensured that this would indeed be the last post. There was even some food that looked like it wasn’t hugely meaty. The beer and vodka arrived and yet another toast was drunk. Then the food turned up, a meat-lover’s dream. Huge knuckles of port. Platters formed of various birds. A massive steak. A pasta thing with mushrooms that had a small amount of meat in it (mine). Everyone tucked in, and by the time the meal was finished, it was 21.30. We could see outside that the streets were less busy than early due to the heavy rain that had set in. So we decided to wait and have another drink to see if it cleared up. By 22.15, we decided that in view of the next morning’s early start, we’d better call it a night. As Pick Six and Matt had ended up in a room with a sofa, they kindly offered Steve overnight hospitality on that instead of the hostel he was booked into, and they went off to collect his bag. As the evening had turned out slightly less expensive than I’d though it would be, I told Mr E. and H. that I’d pay for a taxi back to the hotel. By 23.00, I was climbing into a very small bed, and trying not to think too much about what the next 24 hours would bring.

To be continued…

A “Travels” is a rare visitor at this time of the year; however as we have reached the Final of Europe’s premier club competition what better way than to mark it with recollections of what was, for many of those who went, a very favourite European trip.

The 2010 – 2011 Champions League campaign began with exceptionally smooth progress through a first stage comprising Marseille, Zilina and Spartak Moscow, ending with Chelsea topping the group on 15 points, having won 5 games and lost 1, the latter in a tough visit to Moscow, and, when the draw for the Round of 16 was made, there could have been few fans unhappy with a pairing against FC Copenhagen, a tie from which the club could be fairly confident of progressing.

Having sourced possible flight and hotel combinations for every other team we could have been drawn against, but improbably omitted Copenhagen, the usual scramble to secure a flight and a hotel ensued.  So it was that I found myself on a BA flight from Heathrow Terminal 5 on the morning of Monday 21^st February.  Over the years, I’ve tended to find myself flying out of Gatwick more than Heathrow (although as I’m now living in the heart of London, I now try and arrange to fly out of there in preference to anywhere else).  T5 is light years away from the rest of the Heathrow monolith, being airy and having a feeling of space.  The shopping is also rather good, and flying with BA has all the advantages of a reserved seat and free baggage.

This trip was the furthest I’d been north, and as the plane started its approach to Copenhagen, it was possible to see from my window that the country’s coast was not only bleak and sepia-tinted, it was also literally freezing. The weather forecast for the week had promised sub-zero temperatures, so I had invested in a thermal vest and socks, and planned to attend the game in many more layers than is my norm.

Copenhagen Airport is brilliant to get to and from.  None of your getting on a airport bus here, but a rapid train ride from the airport to the city centre in about 15 minutes for the equivalent of £7.  I’d travelled out to Denmark on my own, but was meeting up with a party later in the evening, having declined an invitation to visit a brewhouse almost as soon as I landed, when all I felt like doing was finding my hotel, having an orientation walk and getting a square meal. 

I’d managed to get quite a good deal on a hotel in the centre of town, and speedily located it. Having checked in, dumped the luggage, and been charmed by the fact the room even had a kitchenette, I set off for a walk into the biting cold dusk.

I remain quite sad that due to the fact it was the middle of winter, I didn’t see as much of the city as I’d have liked, and certainly didn’t see the royal palace, which I’d hoped to do, and the famous Tivoli Gardens on Hans Christian Anderson Boulevard are closed in February.  However, the walk took me past the Tivoli and on towards the Radhus, as it got darker and colder.  After a brief perusal of the main shopping thoroughfare, where I pondered and rejected the possibility of buying another sweater (a decision I later regretted), I decided to find my dinner.  Having walked back towards H.C. Boulevard, I found rather a nice looking Italian restaurant and walked in. 

 As readers of the Travels will recall, I have a very poor grasp of most European modern languages, but my Danish extends no further than “Tack”.  So in order to get over the language difficulty in Ristorante Vesuvio, I decided I might as well give the Italian a run out.  And surprisingly, it was rather successful, and I had an extremely enjoyable meal of bruschetta, tortelloni melanzane e zucchini, and sorbetto Vesuvio (lemon sorbet with limoncello liquor).  Once fortified, I headed off towards the train station, to meet another member of the party, who was arriving on a later flight.  Just as I was saying hello to H., it so happened that Dazza A. (whose prophecy regarding the Milanese coleslaw was so accurate – see Travels with the Chels – Milan), who was also joining the trip, was short-cutting through the station with his half-brother, Kim, who was over from Norway for the game.  Our final renegade, Mr E.,who’d escaped the carnage of the Milan lurgy, was also in town and, as a real ale buff, had reluctantly agreed to meet the rest of us in the Old English Pub in Vesterbrogade, but had retreated to his lodgings to change his frock.

 It’s usually the case that any English/Irish pub you wander into on a European trip will be stuffed full of Chels, but Copenhagen seemed to be the exception.  We found this slightly strange, but settled down for an evening with reasonably priced alcohol, a band playing U2-type numbers, and Sky Sports News on the TV.  About 9pm, not having had any dinner, H., Dazza and Kim went out to the conveniently-located Burglar King next door. When they returned, it was with the news that the reason that the Old English Pub was so quiet was that everyone was probably in the Cafe Guldhornene on Vestegarde, which had heavily promoted itself as the home of Chelsea in Copenhagen, and who were said to be running promotions on drinks.  Mr E. decided he was feeling his age at this point (about midnight) and wanted to be up at the crack of dawn for his day-trip to Malmo, so he left the rest of us wastrels to make our way to the proposed den of iniquity. 

 As we left Vesterbrogade and crossed over to HCA Boulevard, it seemed to have got even colder.  And as we reached the Rathaus, we felt the first flakes of snow drifting gently to the ground.  Although old enough to know better, this was the signal to caper around the square shouting “It’s snowing! It’s snowing” (like we hadn’t had enough snow in London during that winter).  After a slight disagreement about the location of the Guldhornene, as is usually the case, a colossal drunken roar signalled that we were in fact near the venue, so we followed the noise down a side street.   The bar appeared to be subterranean, and we could see a fairly crowded looking room through the basement windows.  However, we weren’t ready for the heat and the noise which hit us.  It was obvious that a fair proportion of those who had travelled to Denmark were in there.  The Tuborg, at the equivalent of just £2.20 a pint, was fairly flowing, and so were the bawdy songs, in particular one coined especially for this trip to one of those Euro-type tunes:-

“We’re in Denmark

We’re in Denmark

We’re on the p..s

With Abramovich*

We’re in Denmark”

 (*in general terms presumably, I certainly didn’t see him in there).

In spite of the heaving crowd, the bar staff were very efficient, but after we’d had a couple of drinks we decided to call it a night and returned to our respective hotels, having arranged to meet again at the Old English pub the next day for a drink before a pre-match lunch.

I shall never forget the next morning. Having turned on the TV for some local news, in particular hoping to see pics of Chelsea fans out and about in Copenhagen, most of the coverage was, justifiably, about the awful earthquake in New Zealand.  However, further down the news was indeed unintelligible reporting which appeared to have taken place outside and around the Guldhornene, and much to my amusement, I saw various face I recognised cavorting around in the background – however, happily not mine nor my friends, the camera crew must have bailed out before we arrived.

Having breakfasted on an excellent buffet spread, in spite of having said I’d meet the others at the pub, I whistled up H. and asked if a walk was in order. Meeting outside the Rathaus, we wondered if we could make it as far as the Carlsberg factory for the free tour, but decided it was probably too far away so we did the photo ops by the lovely statue of Hans Christian Anderson and the town hall, and then headed down towards the river. It was a brilliantly sunlit day but bitingly cold, even more so than the previous day and, pausing by the river before we turned back towards the Rathaus, we were astonished to see it was freezing over. Heading back towards the pub, we passed the Tivoli Gardens and I peeped through the railings for a proper look. It looked extremely attractive clad in its winter mantle, and again I felt disappointment that I wasn’t able to visit.

The team congregated at the pub, and although it was midday by this time, all I wanted was coffee. I was feeling sleepy due to the extreme cold and managed to nod off whilst the others watched England getting mauled by Holland in cricket’s World Cup. Mr E. joined us about 12.30, having spent the morning on a train between Copenhagen and Malmo where he’d managed to avoid getting detained by border control in spite of not having taken his passport with him.

I had sourced what seemed a suitable venue locally for a cheap lunch, but Mr E. thought it sounded ghastly, so he decided to go and visit another brewhouse, where we would meet him later whilst the rest of us headed to a restaurant call Ad Libtorv. This sounded rather a fun place where you buy a space for roughly 15 pounds, but then you could eat and drink whatever you liked from a buffet which included hot and cold dishes, breads, salads and soups. The drinks even included wine and beer as well as soft drinks.   En route, H. decided he fancied a bag of crisps or similar for the match, and we spotted a likely looking shop called Tiger.  This turned out to be a magical cross between Poundland and Primark and we wandered around the aisles examining local delicacies.  H. found a massive bag of the equivalent of Kettle Chips for about a pound.  Then we headed towards the restaurant, grabbed a table and were soon stuffing away. H. thought the beer rather watery, but managed to drink a half a pint of white wine, a tremendous achievement. I merely sipped a glass of red. Dazza A. and Kim tried the wine and the beer, as well as the coke. Whilst we were enjoying our meal, the skies had grown ever more cloudy, and again the snow began to fall. Whilst the boys were sitting in the restaurant, I went back to my hotel to put on a number of layers as the weather forecast had threatened that the temperature could be down to -6 by the time the game started. I returned to the restaurant to rejoin the boys, and as we were heading out the door, the bus we needed to take us to the brewhouse pulled up over the road. We travelled through the streets of Copenhagen which were growing increasingly snowy, and upon alighting walked to the brewhouse which was probably a mile and a half away from the ground and which Mr E. proposed walking to. In the snow. And sub-zero temperatures.

In Stephen Fry’s film of Vile Bodies, “Bright Young Things”, near the beginning the heroine, Nina, says to her cousin Miles “I’ve never been so frantically bored in all my life”. Which pretty well sums up those three hours. I love to travel and I like to meet the locals, but my idea of pre-match hell is being stuck in a pub with real ale enthusiasts and no Chelsea fans. Eventually the time to depart arrived and we headed off towards the ground, with the thermometer now in the region of -8. In order to get to the ground, we ended up having to cross a park. In civic, civilised, environmentally friendly Copenhagen, cyclists have priority, even over pedestrians and we found ourselves having to dodge them as they speeded around us as I dragged myself with frozen feet towards the welcoming lights of the Parken, cursing that I hadn’t insisted on a cab.

However, we finally got there, and were searched by friendly stewards who happily didn’t manage to find H’s hip flask (tucked inside my bra) or the packet of B U M (delicious fruit and vodka drink from Germany, provided by my nephew) hidden under my hat.

Once waved through, we made our way into the bright, modern stadium and I decided a loo visit was definitely needed due to the cold.  Carlsberg don’t do ladies’ toilets, but if they did, they’d probably be like the ones at Parken.  Having rejoined the rest of the class (who’d obtained some Carlsberg that was suspiciously light on alcohol), we found seats together and warmed up vocally.  I have to say most of what was a solid, albeit fairly pedestrian game, warmed only by a brace from Anelka, taking him to six goals in seven Champions League games and the presence of dear old Jesper Gronkjaer in the home side, passed me by.  I have never been so cold in my life, and I shall always be grateful to the Police and stewards for not implementing the usual CL lock-in after the game.  Chances are, if that had happened, many of the travelling fans would have ended up with frost-bite.  My toes were absolutely numb by this time, and, having managed to lose Dazza A. and Kim along the way, Mr E. and H. ended up dragging me back across the park towards the brewhouse.  Proof, if it were needed, of the bitter frost was provided on the way  back when we passed occasional pint of lager, abandoned and frozen.

By the time we arrived back at the brewhouse, they were winding down for the evening, but we were welcomed in for a drink and the chance to warm up, and it was interesting to see that Danish CL television coverage was being hosted by none other than Peter Schmeichel.  It was literally one drink, however, and we bade farewell to the owner and trekked back to the bus stop.  Luckily we only had to wait a couple of minutes and within another 15, I was back at my hotel, having said goodbye to the chaps, who were flying back to London on the first plane.  I crawled into bed, where I slept soundly due to the cold and the evening’s perambulations.

As I wasn’t flying back until mid-afternoon, the next morning afforded a brief opportunity to pick up some souvenirs, so, having left my holdall with reception, I ventured out into another snow shower and not only visited a tat shop for local gifts, but also popped into Tiger and bought a purse and a note book.    On my way there, I’d bumped into a Mantle twin.  In spite of the cold and snow he was sweating profusely and drinking water, having been in the Cafe Guldhornene until 5am!

After picking up my luggage, I caught the train back to the airport, and found the time for an authentic, delicious smorgasbord of smoked salmon on rye bread.  Probably the gastronomic highlight of what was a hugely enjoyable trip.

And I’m sure we all hope and pray that this week’s trip is just as enjoyable.  I’m off with my party (including Dazza A., Mr E. and H.) to Stuttgart on Friday for an overnight stay, prior to arriving in Munich by train about 10am on Saturday morning.  I’ll be wearing my now-lucky oldish shirt with Blue Baby on the back, so feel free to say hello.  I’ll also be wearing my lucky hoody, my lucky jewellery, my favourite lucky jeans and my lucky underwear.  My hair will be in its lucky bun (I’ll be glad to get it cut), and I’ll be listening to the lucky songs (Three Little Birds and The Liquidator) on the i-pod.  And know this; in my 10 European away trips, I have travelled from Heathrow to four of them.  And my record? 100% – see, lucky airport.  And if we win, there’ll be a special edition of Travels next week.

Wherever you are watching the game, whether it’s in the Allianz Arena, in SW6, in a hostelry local to you, or in the comfort of your own home; whether it be on your own, or with an army of friends, I sincerely hope that we all enjoy the most wonderful night in our club’s rich history on Saturday. 

I’ll be here sporadically throughout the summer, but in the meantime you can follow me on Twitter @BlueBaby67

In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was print. James A. Catton was the earliest significant figure in football journalism, writing for the Preston Herald in 1875. Forty years later, he recalled “”In days long ago when Association football players wore beards and breeches, instead of being clean shaven and donning shorts or running pants, newspapers, as a whole, took very little notice of matches.

The reports were brief, and there were none of the personal paragraphs, garrulous items, and more or less sensational news which are now part not only of weekly periodicals, but of morning and evening newspapers.” In 1886 James A. Catton began to write for the weekly “The Athletic News” under the pen-name “Ubique”, later calling himself “Tityrus”. He subsequently became editor of The Athletic News and was acknowledged as the most important football writer in Britain.

As interest in Association Football increased, so did the coverage. One of the most important sources of information for supporters were the Saturday evening “pinks”, with their emphasis on local teams. Sadly now a dying breed, these were often the only way of finding out how other teams got on and were usually printed within minutes of the final whistle being blown at games.

A technological revolution was born in January 1927 when BBC radio broadcast its maiden commentary, featuring a game between Arsenal and Sheffield United, with the FA Cup Final being broadcast for the first time that same year. By 1931 the BBC was broadcasting over 100 games per season. Radio ownership was in its infancy at this time, with only approximately 30% of households owning a “wireless”. The Alan Green of that era was George Allison. He devised a system to help listeners understand what was going on, consisting of a diagram with a football pitch divided into squares which was published in the Radio Times.

Allison’s broadcast assistant would call out the number of the square where the ball was being played, and when the ball was deliberately passed back to the goalkeeper (a legal if time wasting tactic up until 1992, for the benefit of younger readers), Allison would announce “and it’s back to square one”, thus originating a phrase which would become part of the English language.

The horrendous economic conditions and poverty of the late 1920s and early 1930s led to a fall in match going, and radio coverage of league games was blamed. As a result, the Football League banned live commentary of their games, a dictat which continued until after the Second World War. However, the FA Cup Final continued to be broadcast throughout the 1930s, with the fixture becoming part of the fabric of the nation, due in part to increased ownership of radios, with over 70% of households owning a radio by 1939. Football broadcasting resumed after the Second World War, with the BBC showing the first non-Final FA Cup game between Blackpool and Bolton in the 1947 5th round.

The early 1950′s saw British audiences treated to their first taste of overseas football at the 1954 World Cup, and in 1955 the fledgling Independent Television broadcast games from the first season of the European Cup, which might have featured Chelsea, had it not been for the club caving into the FA over their participation. In the same year, BBC started showing highlights from First Division games for the first time in Soccer Special.

It was however in 1964 that a seismic shift took place with the birth of a national institution – Match of the Day on BBC2. Originally broadcast in black and white, colour transmissions of football hightlights started in 1969 and by the time Chelsea faced Leeds in the 1970 FA Cup final, the game was played out before a record audience of 20 million. By the early 1980s the Football League had signed a contract for regular live games on TV, but the broadcasters weren’t to know that the decade would see an unparalled era of crowd trouble, and that poorly maintained grounds all over the country would eventually claim the lives of scores of fans.

By the middle of the decade, football fans were generally perceived as scum, especially by the Government. The Minister for Sport, former Olympic rower, Colin Moynihan, and originator of a proposal to bring in compulsory ID cards for supporters, described fans as “the effluent society”, and a leader in The Times of 18 June 1985 described the game as “…a slum sport, watched by slum people”.

It was around this time, inspired by the culture of music fanzines which had sprung up in the 1970s and early 80s, the first football fanzines emerged. “When Saturday Comes” was launched in 1986 and is still going strong over 25 years later, with the same editor. Suddenly, if you had opinions and had access to a photocopier, you could start a fanzine yourself. All you needed was a few mates to help distribute it. And some of the titles were, and remain glorious – WSC used to list those available such as Gillingham’s legendary Brian Moore’s Head Looks Uncannily Like London Planetarium, which is still going, albeit online these days. There used to be a wonderful shop in the Charing Cross Road called Sportspages, where you could buy fanzines, and whenever I was in London in the late 80s, I’d go there simply to read.

And as befits a club which has long had a creative, imaginative, talented fanbase, Chelsea fans were swift to embrace the concept of the fanzine. “The Chelsea Independent” was launched in 1987 and was a fixture on the Fulham Road until 1999, being replaced in 2000, in the very early days of the internet, by CFCNet. However, after the print version of The Chelsea Independent ceased, help was at hand for those seeking a physical fix for the tube or the train with the launch of Matthew Harding’s Blue & White Army, which subsequently became the legendary and much loved CFCUK (which is, as everyone knows, is still available on match days for only a pound. Urry up).

At the dawn of the digital era, one of the single biggest changes in how football fans interact was created by the BBC. In 2003, they put together a collection of internet forums for each club in the Premier League, togethe with forums for the lower divisions and Scottish football via the BBC website under their “606″ banner. This provided a first opportunity for many football fans, including myself, to publicly put forward their views, not only on their club, but on other clubs too. It is fair to say that 606 changed my own life as I started writing about football for the first time since my early teens, when I used to sit down at my Corona typewriter on a Saturday evening and write my own slant on the day’s scorelines.

However, due to the BBC’s strict moderation rules, and the fact the boards closed at 10pm, just minutes after midweek games, dissatisfaction set in quite early, and as a result those fans with the necessary technical know-how began to drift away to start their own forums, where membership could be denied to those perceived as “numpties” (numpties of course being the forerunners of trolls). With relatively low running costs, independent forums, run for fans by fans, sprang up all over the place. CFCUK launched their own website, as well as remaining in print. CFCNet remains the behemoth of Chelsea forums, with membership running into thousands. The After Hours Football Club was one of the first descendants of 606, started by an enlightened Gooner, but with sections for individual clubs.

This site hosted a particularly lively Chelsea forum, many of whose members congregated in the So Bar on matchdays, at the end housing the toilets, dubbing themselves “Bog Enders”. The BBC 606 forums sadly closed their doors for the last time on 31st May 2011, at a time when blogging has become increasingly popular. Organisations such as “Word Press” have made it possible to produce highly-professional websites at minimal costs, and “TheChels.Net” is one such blog that’s benefited. The beautifully-titled “Plains of Almeria” is the home of the cerebral blogger, attracting some of the highest calibre Chelsea writers around, and the fledgling “Mowing Meadows” has in a short space of time become a hugely-respected part of the blogging scene.

And of course, it’s not just the written word that’s available to Chelsea fans. Regular readers will recall that I spent a memorable evening in Putney recently with the Chelsea Football FanCast team (other pods are also available), and coupled with the club’s own in-house TV channel and media outlets, you have to ask yourself where the future lies for traditional media.

If you’re a Chelsea fan, with all the above options open to you, why should you waste your time on old media? Why listen to the bile on TalkSport when you can listen to your fellow-fans talk about the action on a podcast?

Why should you read what are still known, even online, as “the papers”? Why subject yourself to the bile of, say, Patrick Barclay, when you can read Joe Tweeds or Tim Rolls? The latter gentlemen are as informed about the club as Barclay, and what’s more, they care. And they’ll have paid for their own match tickets.

Why is Martin Lipton more relevant than Dan Levene of the Fulham Chronicle? Dan is a paid journalist, but at least he genuinely cares about the club and is the only professional worth following on Twitter.

Basically the difference between a journalist and a blogger is money. A journalist gets paid. A blogger does it for love and enjoyment, in their spare time.

The problem with the self-appointed righteous brothers of the former Fleet Street is that they believe they are still running the game. Hence the witch-hunts against those they perceive as sinners (certain players, certain club) and the paeans of praise for their favourites (again, certain players, certain clubs).The sole remaining area in which the hacks still have any kind of real influence is the England team, simply because there’s fewer new media resources dedicated to the national teams. The traditional journalists are dinosaurs, and extinction is coming. Another 50 years, and like the Saturday evening “pinks”, they’ll be consigned to history.

Acknowledgements
Contrary to popular belief, I do occasionally research these articles and I’m grateful to the following resources:

Spartacus Educational for background on the early history of football journalism and broacasting

The next web.com for a potted history of the now-sadly defunct 606

Soccerlens.com for Hugo Steckelmacher’s excellent article on the evolution of the fanzine on March 27th, 2008

Recommended Links

There’s a lot of good reading out there:-

 plainsofalmeria.co.uk

mowingmeadows.wordpress.com

www.cfcnet.co.uk

transparentsport.com/cfcuk

Recommended Forums

ahfcchat.com

chelseafancast.com/forum

Social Media

AHFC and ChelseaFancast are both on Facebook. ChelseaFancast are also on Twitter, where you can find bloggers referred to above (@mowingmeadows @JoeTweeds @tim_rolls ) and many more, together with Dan Levene’s account, @BluesChronicle.

You can also follow me @BlueBaby67

Introducing Campaign55 – A New Initiative from Chelsea Pitch Owners’ Shareholders

I’m sure that the events of last Autumn connected with Chelsea Pitch Owners are only too fresh in the minds of most Chelsea fans.

One of the reasons that the proposal put before CPO shareholders at October’s EGM failed to be carried, was the efforts of a group of CPO shareholders who banded together under the name Say No CPO. 

After the EGM, Say No continued to put pressure on the board of Chelsea Pitch Owners in connection with outstanding issues such as the disputed/misold shares, which are the subject of a report currently being compiled by Gray Smith of the CPO board, and also the “marriage value” of the ground and the shares.

However, over the last couple of weeks, following extensive correspondence and meetings, members of Say No have decided to launch a fresh initiative in connection with Chelsea Pitch Owners called Campaign55.

SNCPO stalwarts Clint Steele and Dave Spring have stated their intention that going forward Say No’s position is intrinsically opposed to any disbanding of CPO, and any move away from Stamford Bridge.  However, Campaign55 is intended as a progressive movement. And here I must declare my hand. 

Who are Ya?

I’ve reported and blogged on CPO issues for TheChels over the last couple of years and have been a member of SNCPO.  One of the most frequent allegations against SNCPO (mainly by CFC Truth, themselves a shadowy group with no public spokesperson) was that the group was faceless and “not transparent” – something I have certainly taken issue with, never having sought to hide my identity, save for the nickname I’ve always used in blogs. 

Campaign55 has a steering group of three – myself and fellow CPO shareholders Darren Mantle and Adil Pastakia.  However, we want this group to represent as many fans as possible and we are looking to affiliate with as many supporters’ groups as possible.  We might be the shareholders, but we want to get views of the fans in the street, the pub and the blog, and pass these on to the board. 

A Twitter account, Facebook page and an email address have  been created, and a mission statement prepared. The website is now live at http://www.campaign55.org/ . and an appearance on the Chelsea Football FanCast is planned in the weeks ahead.

What’s It All About, Then?

The choice of Campaign55 as a name took a lot of deliberation and involved not just the steering group, but members of the wider SNCPO group.  It’s our belief that the club should ideally be looking to expand Stamford Bridge to a capacity of 55,000.  We genuinely feel that the 60,000 capacity being mentioned in recent communications from the club is not a realistic ambition.

With the exception of the true marquee games like Manchester United and Barcelona, it’s becoming easier and easier for fans who can still afford tickets to pick up the inevitable “spares”.  Even for games like the recent match with Tottenham, tickets were available for those with nil loyalty points.  Five years ago, that wouldn’t have happened. We’ve seen plans which show how the ground could be extended without disturbing the historically significant, and difficult to dismantle, East Stand, and leaving the relatively new West Stand intact.

However, if, after full consultation with Chelsea Pitch Owners and Hammersmith & Fulham Council, it can be proved beyond all reasonable doubt and economic viability the ground can’t be extended, then Campaign55 would support moving to a new 55,000 seater stadium within the historic Chelsea FC catchment area, i.e. Earl’s Court or Battersea.

Clubbing Together

We are serious about this endeavour, and as a result letters of introduction will be sent to Bruce Buck, the Chairman of Chelsea FC, together with the Board of Chelsea Pitch Owners.  We are also taking steps to liaise with Hammersmith & Fulham Council in order to make the voices of our fans heard.

Just the Beginning

Campaign55 is in its infancy, but all of us involved are determined to use the movement as a conduit between the fans, the CPO organisation and the club to ensure that in the crucial medium to long term ahead, the interests of all Chelsea supporters are represented.  This is just the beginning.

The Twitter account address for Campaign55 is @Campaign55, you can access the Facebook page via http://www.facebook.com/campaign55 and email the team at campaign55cfc@gmail.com.

I’m also happy to answer questions about Campaign55 on the comments thread here, or through my own Twitter account @BlueBaby67

“Pitch Owners Fancast (POF) – crazed sect who meet in a Putney bar back room every Monday.” – Those Pitch Owners Factions, A Cut-Out-And-Keep Group by Group Guide by Tim Rolls, Plains of Almeria blog, 18/01/12″

Over the past few years, there’s been an explosion in football fans getting their fix of the beautiful game through emerging media rather than traditional print and broadcast sources, a topic this column will be exploring further in the coming weeks.

A decent ip3 player is now relatively cheap, and a market that appears to be rapidly expanding is that of “podcasting”. Early podcasts were produced by the BBC (Fighting Talk and Mayo & Kermode’s cinema reviews are the ones which spring most rapidly to mind), but now it’s possible for anyone with a decent idea and determination to broadcast on a subject that interests them and gather in listeners via social media.

A handful of Chelsea Podcasts are available, including the club’s official offering, together with fan-based offerings such as “The Chels” and the beautifully titled “The Podding Shed”. However, with a cult following and weighing in at 200 episodes, the daddy of the podcast has to be “The Chelsea Fancast”.

Founded by producer David Chidgey (aka Stamford Chidge), the show is recorded in Putney on a Monday night with a cast of reprobates and ne’er do wells who follow Chelsea over land and sea, and this week I took the opportunity to join them to discuss the week’s victories over Benfica and Villa.

The joining instruction said “we meet at 7pm for a 7.30 ko”, but sadly Chidge got delayed in the rush hour, and by the time the incredibly-complicated equipment was set up, it was almost 8pm. Ah yes, the equipment. To the podcast listeners it might sound like a few blokes sitting round a table, but the section of the bar where the show is recorded is almost L-shaped, with a long padded bench (cell?) along a wall.

The usual co-presenters, of whom more shortly, sit alongside each other each with a microphone, with the casual visitors located in “the benches”, sharing one mike between them. As ringmaster, Chidge not only gets his own, very professional microphone, but is also poised over a laptop, wearing headphones and all the mikes are linked up into a mini-mixing desk so presumably he can fade up/down contributors/miscreants.

As for this week’s co-presenters, they’re names recognizable to most Chelsea fans as well as the podcast audience; Darren Mantle is well-known to many for his periodical media appearances and organizing the huge flags that roll across the ground on matchdays. Similarly, Ross Mooring is another noted blogger, who also did a huge amount of work in the Autumn with Say No CPO. They’re joined by Chris Norman, aka Celery Terrorist, Paul “Pablo” Jeffreys and “John Thomas”, better known as ChelTel.

At the Benches mike, are myself, Oskar the Swedish Blue, and Mike, who is visiting from the US and has dropped by to join in the show – I’m told a lot of listeners from abroad, particularly from the US, do this when they’re in town.

Chidge does a sound level test, and away we go. In spite of the free-wheeling feel the show gives to the listener, the presenters receive a script from Chidge in advance, and the show features a number of set-pieces, such as The Fannies, including the Celery and Guinness moments, and “You’re on CFFC!”

The presenters and benches get introduced, and I can’t help feeling slighly nervous as the microphone is turned to me. Chidge is remarkably kind throughout and I name-drop Old Mother Baby wherever I can, particularly attempting to blame her for talking me into going to the Villa game on Saturday when my initial reaction after the Albion disaster wasn’t to go. I’m also the only member of the panel who was at both Benfica and Villa, and point out in no uncertain terms that the only one to be at both games was “a girl”.

The Celery and Guinness awards are dished out to Torres for his goal, particularly the celebration which was deemed to be “proper Chels” and Branna’s double. The search for Chelsea’s all-time best XI continued with a look at the pick of our defensive midfielders (a choice between Ray Wilkins, Makalele, Stanic, Essien, Ballack and Spackman), and in the “Shall We Sing a Song for You?” segment, I bellow “Oh Dennis Wise,scored a f **c king great goal” so loudly that I nearly deafen Chidge through his cans.

Darren contributes to proceedings by causing what can only be described as a “gas incident”. Following on from the Best XI, Spackman is the subject of “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, with an especial mention in despatches for his giving Martin Keown, the original possessor of a monkey’s head, a slap. Whilst off-colour language is permitted, only Darren’s favourite “c” word is absolutely vetoed, and when he eventually can’t help himself, Chidge groans and puts his head in his hands.

There’s a fag/drink/loo break at about 9.15, but by the time proceedings are starting to wind up, it’s 10.30. I counter a suggestion of possibly discussing Chelsea Pitch Owners with “this show’s already gone on long enough”, and a paeon of praise for Mata “coming inside” results in the entire crew corpsing for getting on for five minutes in a style reminiscent of the late Brian Johnston.

Eventually, almost three hours after the recording began, Chidge asks us for our Twitter addresses and in thanking me for appearing praises TheChels, particularly Chelsea Youth who is hailed by the rest of the team as a “legend”. Finally, Chidge ends with the traditional “keep it blue, keep it carefree” and we all join in with “UP THE CHELS!”

The boys start packing away the equipment, and the recording ends for another week. I finally get home at midnight from a long but hugely enjoyable evening.

I’ve obviously not revealed all from this week’s broadcast in the hope that you’ll listen for yourselves. You can download The Chelsea Fancast free from iTunes, (Download or Subscribe) and visit the fansite at chelseafancast.com, where you can also join the forum.

You can follow the fancast team on Twitter:-

David Chidgey -@DavidChidgey
Darren Mantle -@DarrenMantle
Ross Mooring – @RossMooring
Chris Norman – @CeleryTerrorist
Paul Jeffrey – @pauljeffrey87
John Thomas – @ChelTel

Many thanks to the team for letting me join them this week, and hopefully if I didn’t make too big an idiot of myself they’ll have me back.

Over the coming weeks we’ll be taking a further look at the ways in which emerging media is making life easier for football fans, and in the meantime you can access my random thoughts on Twitter @BlueBaby67.

Shortly before Christmas, off the back of a poor run but following qualification for the last 16 of the CL, this column wondered if the season could turn out to be something special (see Special Ones Too). And it certainly has, but not in a good way. A slew of defeats, players who don’t seem to be bothered about putting in a shift but are only too happy to collect their 000s of Ks every week, and continued reports in the media of problems in the dressing room culminated in yesterday’s abject performance at West Bromwich Albion, resulting in the dismissal today of Andreas Villas Boas, less than 9 months after his appointment as Chelsea manager.

As someone who has never received football coaching in their life, it is difficult for me to comment on the mechanics of a performance. All I see is players passing the ball. Whilst I’m au fait with systems and styles, like a typical woman, I prefer incidents to statistics. In spite of being there, I couldn’t tell you who scored our goals in the 3-2 defeat at Man Utd in September, but I remember Ian Marshall of Leicester pulling a hammy whilst trying to nutmeg Albert Ferrer in front of the still unroofed West Stand and getting celery chucked at him in about 1999. So I’m not really the one to say whether AVB didn’t know what he was doing on the tactics front. All I know that he failed to pull on a shirt in any of our games recently. Whilst the buck stops with the manager, our players have to look at themselves in the mirror and ask themselves how much they have contributed to letting the fans down.

It is not the first time player power has hastened the demise of a manager at Chelsea. As long ago as 2000, Gianluca Vialli lost the dressing room, and at the time when a revised Bosman ruling was being threatened resulting in contracts no longer being worth the paper they were written on, Ken Bates and Colin Hutchinson were presented with a “him or us” ultimatum by a number of players (this was confirmed to me by the respected Italian journalist Giancarlo Galivotti several years ago). Whilst Franck Leboeuf attracted most of the opprobrium directed at the players on this occasion, he was certainly not the only one involved and even tried to offload the blame on Gianfranco Zola – in a radio interview on the day of his last game at Chelsea, he commented “Gianfranco has much more power at Chelsea than me”. Indeed, Vialli’s own comments on Twitter today hint at a frosty relationship with the club’s new caretaker manager, Roberto di Matteo.

Stories about player unrest have abounded in the press recently, usually attributed to a “senior player”. I hope whoever he is, he will now expend his energies for the rest of the season in galvanising his team-mates to get their fingers out. The decision to appoint di Matteo as caretaker manager until the end of the season is an indication that Chelsea have a clear target in mind but need to wait until the end of the season. Were that not the case, either Benitez or Capello, both free agents, would have been appointed today. Given Jose Mourinho’s very public visit to London last week, combined with news of a further alleged visit on Monday, and information provided by a source to this column that Mourinho and Abramovich had dinner at a top London hotel last week, last week’s article “Return of the Special One” may yet prove to have been barking up the right tree.

As usual, the ones suffering most at this time are the fans. I know people who set off for Albion at 6am and reckoned they weren’t going to get home till midnight. Approximately 1600 hardy souls travelled to Napoli two weeks ago. As I write, Chelsea lie fifth in the premiership and no doubt there are those amongst the inter-continental support (and possibly one or two in the UK) who have decided that the club are so last decade, and transferred their support elsewhere. These are the very people that our CEO is keen on cultivating at the expense of those who invest their time and emotion, not to mention maxing out their credit cards, on supporting CFC in the flesh and not through the medium of their television.

I think the last time I felt so low about a manager was, surprisingly, the day Ruudi was sacked (when Jose left I was in an emotional maelstrom, and when Luca was sacked I was so ill that if Ken Bates had turned up to announce the news in person I probably wouldn’t have turned a hair). However, we Chels are a resillient lot. Whilst I’d be surprised if we sell out Birmingham away, the faithful will be out in force and giving 100% of their passion to the cause. Let’s hope the players can do the same.

 “They seek him here/they seek him there/those Frenchies seek him everywhere/Is he in heaven?/Or is he in hell?/The demn’d elusive Pimpernel”
The Scarlet Pimpernel – Baroness Emma Orczy

The arrival of The Special One in London this week on a not so secret visit has sparked a frenzy of speculation amongst the media, who are linking him with not only every post at the top end of English club management but also the national team job.  We at The Chels aren’t averse to a good speculate ourselves, and if you look behind the pictures, a pattern is starting to emerge.

1. Other than the widely circulated pictures of fans he bumped into on his visit, it emerged on Twitter yesterday (I know, I know, but it’s amazing how much useful stuff gets in to the public domain via that particular medium) that the man pictured with Mourinho is called Mark Foley.  Mr Foley is allegedly employed by Chelsea FC in a role which assists club staff in sourcing accommodation.

2. Chelsea TV showed a “Best of Jose” compilation last night.

3. The club yesterday announced that they would be touring the US next summer.  Jose’s pre-season tour of choice.

Coincidence?  Possibly. 

Today’s stories in the media have reported that Jose told fans on Tuesday that he wasn’t returning to Chelsea.  However, when Sir Percy Blakeney was quizzed as to whether he was Scarlet Pimpernel, he denied it.  Of course Jose isn’t going to cough up that sort of information.

This week’s events have further ramped up speculation as to where his Specialness will be plying his trade next season.  One thing pretty certain is that it’s unlikely to be Madrid.

Derek McGovern of the Mirror, a man whose “tips” are usually so wide of the market he really should be had up under the Trades Description Act, says William Hill are offering 3-1 for the Bridge to be Jose’s next stop.  For once, he might be on to something.

Follow me on Twitter @BlueBaby67

Apologies for the hiatus in our perambulations across Europe, whilst we’ve been diverted by weightier matters closer to home.  But with the Champions League winter break almost behind us, and a trip to Napoli heaving into view, it’s time to re-visit la bella Italia.

With The Special One having joined Internationale following his departure from the Bridge, it was inevitable that we’d meet him in the Champions League, and when the draw for the round of 16 paired the clubs together, a number of hasty telephone calls with a few pals resulted in some fairly cheap flights to Milan, a half-decent hotel next to the station and an early trip to Gatwick to fly out the day before the game. 

It’s worth remembering that Milan is served by two airports, and whilst Linate is the junior partner, it’s certainly more convenient for the city centre (as I discovered last March when my flight to Pisa was diverted to Milan Malpensa when the windscreen in the cockpit cracked whilst flying over the Alps and I was told that it would take nearly as long to get to central Milan as it would to wait for the replacement plane).

Having evaded the squadrons of mini cabs looking for a fare and located the official taxi rank, a 20 minute ride took us to our hotel and following check-in and a meet up with a mate who was in another nearby hotel, we set out to explore the city. One of our party (let’s call her K) had expressed a wish to visit an outlet store in the Via Manzoni where highly desirable designer goods could be purchased at heavily discounted rates, so we decided to call in there.  It was the first in many shopping disappointments for me on this trip.  Nothing worth having, in my book, or hers.  We then decided to head for the famous Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, packed to the brim with Prada, Gucci, Chanel and other leading designers.  On the way, we passed La Scala, one of the world’s most famous opera houses.  Another disappointment.  It looked incredibly utilitarian and municipal.  I’d been expecting something along the lines of the ROH, where I occasionally patronise the cheap (sic) seats, or the heavily rocco’d Paris Opera.

The Galleria Vittorio Emanuel reminded me of nothing so much as the Great Western Arcade in my native Birmingham, but with shops infinitely out of my price range.  Even K. was heard to mutter in Prada “too expensive” whilst Jimmy M., the sole male member of our party was told by G., “If you bought your wife one of those [£1000] bags, you could have your dinner cooked at 6pm every night for the rest of your life”, to which he replied “at those prices, I’d cook it myself”.

Whilst strolling back towards the Metro, I’d decided to call up a couple of pals who were also over for the game, Mr E. and Dazza A, who’d promised to join us at a dinner in the Porta Rossa for my flatmate, whose birthday it was (see also Travels with the Chels – Stuttgart).  Whilst the phone rang, I looked ahead of me, and to my amazement saw them standing 50 yards away from me.  We firmed up arrangements for dinner, and made our away back to the station and our respective hotels to bathe and change.

The restaurant in Porta Venetia necessitated a cab through the dark streets, however we arrived a little after the appointed time and made our way through an unlovely corridor into what appeared to be an outdoor bar and restaurant protected from the elements by a marquee.  We were shown to our table, where our friends were waiting and proceeded to order.  When it came to the Contorni (side dishes), the waiter was asked about a salad.  He said “this is a beautiful dish.  You have tasted nothing like it”.  Therefore an order was placed for it to share amongst us, together with a more prosaic side of chips.  So the food arrived and the wine flowed.  When the mysterious salad arrived, four or five of us tested it. I thought it was like an extra vinegary coleslaw.  “Be careful”, warned Dazza A. “That could go right through you”.  Prophetic words.

So the meal went on, only threatening to come to a fractious head when the bill arrived for a seemingly extortionate sum, which was resolved by the discovery that we’d been charged for more main courses than we’d had and the fact that the waiter had thought the party at the next table were with us.  With the usual grousing accompanying a large party (“I only had a main course”, “I didn’t drink all that beer”, “I didn’t have a side order) – we settled up and adjourned to the bar for drinks.

By the time 1am arrived, having had a few drinks, I was starting to feel tired.  My tummy was also starting to rumble in an ominous manner, and I decided to go back to the hotel, leaving K and G in the doubtful care of Dazza A.,whom I left outside the restaurant asking a cabbie what sort of low nightclub they could go on to.  I got back to the hotel just in time.  Dazza A’s prophecy came to pass and I spent much of the next two hours firmly clamped to the loo, clutching a packet of Immodium.  By 3am, the sickness had passed, and I crawled into bed just as K and G arrived back, not having much luck in finding a venue with suitably banging tunes.  G curled up in her bed and went to sleep, but K and I spent a most amusing hour playing “Arse versus Elbow”, in which the competitors take a picture of their arms crooked at the elbow, with the wrist pointing down, to see whose arm ends up looking most like arse cheeks.*

In spite of the uproar in my stomach, I slept, only to wake at 8am.  I thought I’d better go and try to have some breakfast but in spite of the tempting array, I could only manage a little toast and coffee and retired back to bed.  We hadn’t formulated any particular plans for the day, but over their breakfast K and G received intelligence of more friends arriving in town, and decided to go off to a bar to meet them.  I simply wasn’t up to sitting in a pub and lay in bed with the window open, praying I wasn’t going to be too ill at the football.  I was also considering the implications of wasting the whole of the day in bed.  Eventually it was too much for me, and I decided that the pub might have been out, but I could do some quiet sightseeing on my own.  I was determined at least to see the Duomo (Milan’s Cathedral), and I’m glad I did.  I’ve visited many of Europe’s great churches now, and there’s no doubt that Milan’s has got to be near the top of any connoisseur’s list.  In spite of the large numbers of visitors, it still maintained an air of peace and holiness that are lacking in others (Florence, for example).  I even managed to attend a mass in a side chapel, where I devoutly prayed for a win against Inter.  As many of the shops were close to the Cathedral, including La Rinascente, Italy’s main department store chain, I paid them a visit (mainly to laugh at the prices), and also went on the City Sightseeing tour in the pleasant winter sun.  I also hoped a light meal of pasta in the restaurant next the hotel would succour my recovering stomach against the night at the San Siro.

Having joined up again with the others, the ladies of the party spent a pleasant hour customising some specially bought Fila y-fronts, in tribute to Ashley Cole’s recent marital problems with the bon mots “Girls Allowed” which we planned to smuggle in past the stewards.  Then we headed to the recommended metro station to meet the buses which would take us to the ground.  Happily ours was full of Chels, but the drive to the ground seemed to take hours, in a huge Milanese traffic jam.  By the time we got to the ground, the game was about to start, and we hoofed up the circular walkways.  Halfway up, I was starting to feel unwell again.  In a throwback to the Old Wembley area, male (natch) fans were starting to use the walkways as a urinal, having been caught short after too much Peroni.  Eventually, we reached the top, only to find the view of the pitch obscured by netting, presumably to stop supporters from the upper tier throwing anything on to those below.  In a state of disbelief we took our seats, just in time to see Diego Milito open the scoring on 3 minutes.  To say we were disgruntled, at this point, would be an understatement.  However, the team dragged themselves back into the game, playing some decent attacking football.  And in spite of Jose Mourinho’s burgeoning reputation as a defensively minded football, Inter looked capable of scoring every time they had the ball.  Just before the interval, we should have had a penalty when Kalou was upended by Walter Samuel, a foul seen by everyone, it seemed, apart from the ref.  Half time saw us still a goal down, but hopeful at such an early stage in the tie. 

Just eight minutes into the second half, a miracle.  An equaliser from Salomon Kalou, following a rampage down the right by Ivanovic.  The decision to drop Joey Cole looked like a good ‘un.  But our dreams of a draw with a crucial away goal were dashed only four minute later when Esteban Cambiasso was the beneficiary of a couple of weak clearances, first by Carvalho and then Terry, and we found ourselves 2-1 down.

Worse was to follow when Petr Cech had to be carried off shortly after in one of those inexplicable turf accidents, to be replaced by Hilario.  Say what you like about Chelsea’s No. 2, he’s never let us down when he’s been called into the fray, and the game ended without us shipping any more goals.  The Inter fans celebrated as if they’d just won the Champions League, never mind about a round of 16 first leg, their joy magnified by a victory over a team now managed by the former boss of their bitter local rivals, AC Milan, the amiable Carlo Ancelotti.

The Chels settled down for the usual inevitable post-match lock-in, but this proved to be probably the most enjoyable part of the evening, save the Kalou equaliser.  The San Siro Wheels of Steel rocked us to the sounds of The Clash, The Jam, Madness, Squeeze and many other favourites.  It’s almost as if they’d done their research.

There was some unpleasantness on the way out as the doors at the bottom of the walkways were blocked by Carabinieri to avoid any potential clash between any Inter Ultras hanging around (of which there were a few) and our fans – the queues backed up unpleasantly and some misguided individuals decided to have an off with the Police; never a good idea in any country, downright foolish anywhere in Italy.  It is purely my opinion, and of course we were probably in the rubbish bit of the ground, but rather like the Stadio Olimpico in Rome, the Giuseppe Meazza looks great on TV, but does not live up to the reality.  Happily I didn’t find it necessary to use the “facilities”, but I’m told there were two loos for 4,000 visiting fans.  Animals would probably be treated better.

However, eventually we got ourselves on a bus and reached the metro in time to take a late train back to our hotel.  The evening concluded with a few drinks (non-alcoholic in my case) in the bar, but with the firm conviction we could still turn the tie around.

The next morning, Jimmy M. met us at our hotel to join the flight home and said that he’d been feeling lousy, and a subsequent conversation with Dazza A. confirmed he’d been ill too.  We all had one thing in common; we’d had the coleslaw salad at dinner on Tuesday evening.  However, conversations with other friends confirmed that the sickness hadn’t just been confirmed to us.  I’ve never heard of so many cases of illness during a European trip and whilst I don’t know what other people were eating, the moral appears to be of the story is whilst in Europe, be a salad dodger!  This is of course something which those off to Naples might want to bear in mind…

Speaking of which, I’m packing my tiny bag for my first European away trip of the season, which hopefully will bring enough stories to furnish a future “Travels”.  In the meantime, you can follow me on Twitter @BlueBaby67

*Readers travelling to Naples may find this a cheap way of filling any empty hours.

The Facts

The CPO AGM took place in the Harris Suite of Stamford Bridge at 11am on Friday 20 January 2012.

Having established a quorum, the new Chairman, Steve Frankham, declared proceedings open. A meeting which was always lively and occasionally boiled over into hostility against the board took questions from the floor right from the start.

The first speaker, David Sadler, wanted to know how ordinary shareholders could put forward resolutions for the AGM. This was born of his attempts to obtain an answer by both phone and e-mail. Bob Sewell had not known the answer and Mr Sadler complained that he had received no further response.

Bob Sewell responded to Mr Sadler’s question from the floor by referring the question to Andrew Edge of Stephen Harwood, CPO’s new lawyers, who was present at the meeting, to give his views. Mr Edge advised that to assist a shareholder in property was contrary to a duty of a director and that Mr Sadler should consult the 2006 Companies Act.

Steve Frankham asked CPO director Gray Smith to give an opinion on the technical legal position and Gray promised Mr Sadler that he would contact him with the correct representation, and called for greater transparency from the board as a whole on this issue. Mr Sadler stated that he considered the AGM just as important as the EGM, and Steve Frankham again promised the matter would be addressed.

Mr Sadler asked if it had occurred to the board that shareholders would wish to put resolutions from the floor and requested that in the absence of this occurring, the meeting should be voided. Mr Frankham advised that a further EGM would be called in which resolutions could be put forward by shareholders.

The second speaker wanted to know what the board of CPO was going to do in the next year, and if they were going to make “sensible” decisions. Steve Frankham stated that the company had been formed to sell shares, pay off the debt and look after the assets. At this point, Dennis Wise took the opportunity to promise honesty and that he had previously been on the board as Ken Bates hadn’t wanted the club to be sold to property developers. Mr Wise stressed that he was independent from the club and stated that he wanted all shareholders to put their views across.

Phil Roland addressed the issue of Resolution 9, relating to reinstatement of share sales and queried why this was an Ordinary Resolution rather than a Special Resolution. Hot on the heels of this, Dave Spring raised the issue of the disputed shares sold to shareholders believed to have an affinity with Chelsea FC. Mr Spring said he believed that any resolutions voted on would be nullified by these shares and accused Mr Frankham of not having dealt with the issue. Mr Spring proposed an adjustment and called for further clarification of the identity of the owners of said shares.

Steve Frankham advised that he had tasked Gray Smith with finding solutions to this issue, however Dave Spring stated that Gray Smith had already provided these answers, but the board had not acted on them.

The next speaker, Colin Simmonds asked if the board saw their responsibility as the selling of shares and paying off of the debt, which Steve Frankham said it was.

The meeting then moved on to the issue of developing Stamford Bridge. Gray Smith said the board were trying to keep Chelsea Pitch Owners separate from the football club, and the board of CPO had no right to be consulted by Chelsea FC. However, Steve Frankham added that the board were about to enter into dialogue with the club on the issue.

Tom Broderick stated that he had e-mailed Hammersmith & Fulham Council regarding the issue of ground expansion and that the Council were willing to explore all opportunities for redevelopment. Their feeling was that the club had sought to demonstrate that they were not able to expand the ground, but H&F were not convinced and needed to carry out further investigations to see if there were any viable propositions.

A major development in the meeting occurred when a speaker asked Bob Sewell, as one of only two members of the previous board present, why the previous board had exceeded the authority to sell no more than £100,000 of shares as agreed at the previous AGM in December 2010. Amidst some uproar, Mr Sewell responded that this was a “mistake” resulting from “human error”.

Rick Glanvill cited the difficulties in monitoring volumes of shares sold, and stated he felt that, given the fundamental issues that October’s EGM had presented, as many people as possible should have been given the opportunity to purchase shares. He added that he had not been aware of the limit [NB Rick Glanvill was not on the board of CPO at the time of the 2010 AGM], and that the issues surrounding this had given him sleepless nights.

Dave Spring asked if the issue of the exceeded share sale authority would now be dealt with by the board, and he was advised that a meeting had taken place on 30 November in which ways to make amends were discussed.

Former SNCPO stalwart James Greenbury rose to say that he looked forward to the report on the extra shares, and called for voting rights to be limited to one per shareholder. He suggested, to general applause and laughter, that if the board were unable to identify those recent bulk purchasers, Chelsea FC chairman Bruce Buck might be able to help them.

Clint Steele of SNCPO then initiated a discussion regarding the value of the shares themselves. Whilst the financial cost of a share remains £100, Clint called for an independent valuation to establish the “market value” of the share. Some speakers suggested that this might run into tens of thousands of pounds. Clint Steele stated he felt most shareholders there wouldn’t want their money back as CPO was set up to prevent the ground from being sold. As Roman Abramovich is the first new owner of the club since the founding of CPO, he felt a realistic assessment needed to be made of the market value.

Clint added that the additional sales over the authority in the autumn had made a farce of the meeting as if the bulk sold shares had registered their proxy votes, these would nullify the say of everyone else. Mr Steele also considered that if, had the proposal gone through in October, would these shareholders might have received their money back? If so, there might be a case to answer in respect of money laundering.

Rick Glanvill’s status as a director was once more called into question, and it emerged that former chairman Richard King had promised a vote on a resolution requiring all CPO board members to be shareholders, and although this proposal was voted through, it was never adopted. Steve Frankham advised he couldn’t comment on a matter which occurred in 2006. At this point, Dennis Wise provided laughter as he pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket and handed them across the table to Mr Glanvill.

Rick Glanvill went on to clarify his position by stating that when he was appointed to the board of CPO in February 2011, he advised Richard King that he didn’t own a share, but was told it didn’t matter. He was sufficiently concerned about the issue that he had been going to purchase a share, but then as a result of Chelsea FC’s approach to the CPO board with their proposal forming the basis of the EGM, decided that purchasing a share at that stage would be perceived as opportunistic and look bad.

The meeting threatened to spiral into chaos, with calls for an open meeting to be held with Hammersmith & Fulham Council, and for an adjournment in the meantime. Paul Todd requested a straw poll for the latter and was refused. The board went on to state its opinion that voting rights should be limited to 10 per shareholder, however, as failing to pay off the loan would be a dereliction of duty, it would be wrong to stop people from buying shares.

Mr Gordon Isaacs was another speaker who called for an adjournment, stating that the only thing proven was the incompetence of the board. Steve Frankham advised that all share sold were legal, and the validity of this had been resolved. Concerns were raised regarding the poor maintenance of the share register and the need for a new class of share holding fewer voting rights.

Gray Smith reiterated his belief in the need for an EGM stating that many shareholders weren’t present at the AGM and that their views also needed to be represented.

Adil Pastakia made an impassioned speech saying that CPO was not about money, but if the proposal had been accepted at the EGM in October, CPO would have gone out of existence and the assets been handed over for a song. Mr Pastakia had looked at recent local property deals where land had been sold for in excess of £75 Million per acre. He also spoke in respect of the political situation in Russia and the problems which that might cause Roman Abramovich going forward.

Steve Frankham responded by saying that as a Chelsea fan, he would do everything possible to protect the asset and he was there to do his best for CPO. He was also in favour of CPO continuing at any new ground. Clint Steele asked if the board members were aware of the potential damage to their reputation should the safeguards provided by CPO be lost. Gray Smith said that CPO should be a wonderful asset available to the club, whoever owns it. However, at the present time, the board were not aware of any proposal to sell the ground and nothing to say that we would have to.

Rick Glanvill pointed out that as the board had not yet been re-elected, they were not in a position to discuss issues such as a further EGM. Steve Frankham made a further commitment to discuss the share issue, and Gray Smith opined that no further shares should be issued until after an EGM. Dennis Wise described himself as being “relaxed” about holding an EGM.

Roy Hinchcliffe of the Chelsea Supporters Club asked for minutes of board meetings to be published. Gray Smith commented the board would be unable to give a blanket commitment, but that he broadly agreed. From the floor, Julian East asked how could the board not make a commitment to transparency, to which Mr Smith responded that people had to have the chance to speak to the board confidentially.

Martin Knight called for Resolutions 9, 10 and 11 to be “knocked out” due to the bulk shareholders not being in attendance at the meeting.

Dan King of The Sun newspaper, who had carried stories relating to the identities of the bulk shareholders in the run-up to the meeting rose to ask if the board accepted the articles raised questions which needed to be addressed by CPO and CFC. Steve Frankham simply reiterated that Gray Smith would look into the matter, but eventually agreed that no shares would be sold until after the EGM.

Kim Holdaway, who had been a speaker at October’s EGM, asked if proxy voters had already cast their votes or whether they were at the chairman’s discretion. She called for Mr Frankham to either have the resolutions withdrawn, or to use his discretionary powers to try and have them voted down.

At this point – approximately 1.15pm – the debate concluded and the vote taken. The meeting was adjourned for the count, with many shareholders leaving. The vote was conducted under the auspices of the Electoral Reform Society and the results were returned as follows:


Resolution 1 (Accounts approval) For 3723 Against 279 Passed

Resolution 11 (Increase in directors to 7) For 2102 Against 1930 Rejected (needed 75%)


Gray Smith explained that as Resolution 10 was defeated, it had the effect of nullifying Resolution 9, in that shares could only now be sold to existing shareholders. As a result, shares sales would remain suspended pending an EGM, and Steve Frankham declared the meeting closed.

The Opinion

I always heave a huge sigh of relief when I’ve finished the bit above and turn to my impressions of the event. Firstly, it was great to see that the momentum of shareholder interest carried over from the EGM. To have 150 – 170 people turn up on a working day is no mean feat and demonstrates how much the issues surrounding CPO have now come to mean to people.

I’m reliably informed that the biscuits, although reduced in quantity from the last AGM, were excellent, however I can’t personally vouch for this (although the man *coughtimrollscough* who ate most of them can). It was also good to see many familiar faces in attendance.

I genuinely don’t believe the atmosphere in the room was quite as bad as it was at the EGM, but that could be due to the fact that we now have some breathing space in which all parties can come together and take matters forward ahead of any future proposals made by the club.

Rick Glanvill, to my mind, provided a totally reasonable explanation as to why he didn’t buy a CPO share. But I just wish to heaven that he had been able to come out and state the precise reason prior to the EGM in October. I honestly believe he was hamstrung by the edict that no director would speak publicly about CPO, and that if he’d been able to publicly clarify his position he would not have received so much of the (in any case unreasonable and unjustifiable) abuse that he was subject to.

One of the really pleasing aspects were the suggestions that were put forward from the floor. In particular, when share sales re-open, it would be hugely beneficial to our younger and less well-off fans if they could purchase shares and pay by Direct Debit/Standing Order. This will give the opportunity for even more supporters to become shareholders.

However, I am concerned that the issue of the “market value” of the shares is starting to raise its ugly head. Whilst there is no getting away from the fact that if last October’s proposal had succeeded Chelsea FC would have come into possession of the assets (i.e. the lease) of CPO at a fraction of the true market value, if too much emphasis is placed on what a share is worth, shareholders may well start to lose sight of what the share represents.

A share in CPO should represent what you feel in your heart about the club. When people get engaged, surely they don’t’ see the ring as “hmm, that’s gonna be worth a few quid in 20 years’ time, we’ll be able to flog it”. They think “that’s a pledge of love and commitment”. The same should be true of a CPO share. It should be a pledge of the love and commitment you feel toward Chelsea FC. The fact you want to protect it, not just now, but always.

Whilst many of the speakers on Friday could reasonably be described as the usual suspects (in my case, guilty as charged), it was good to see so many participants recognised by the chair. In particular, Adil Pastakia’s contribution was outstanding.

It is of interest that only one speaker, Michael Volpe, gave 100% support to the board of CPO, and the voting figures suggest that a large number of voting shareholders have misgivings about all board members. Indeed, one shareholder said to me afterwards, “how Bob Sewell is still on the board after this is unbelievable”.

Well, all the board have been re-elected, and they now need to sit down and decide exactly how they are going to take CPO forward, and prepare for another EGM in the spring at which another attempt at thrashing out outstanding matters will be made.

It will be interesting to see in the light of the rejection of Resolution 11 whether an ad hoc decision will be taken to expand the board, as it was in November, or whether Steve Frankham will decide to stick with what he’s got. It is arguable that in Gray Smith, whose performance on Friday was outstanding, the Say No lobby have sufficient representation on the board for the time being. One thing is certain, if a proposal to extend the board is put forward again at the EGM, this time prospective candidates will be ready and waiting.

As usual, apologies to anyone whose name I’ve misspelt; any errors of fact are mine and unintentional.

I’d like to thank Tim Rolls for keeping a better record of the results, which I have used above, than I did. His own splendid take on the meeting is at plainsofalmeria.com, and you can find his brilliant Pythonesque-parody of the CPO factions there too.

Follow me on Twitter @BlueBaby67; the SNCPO campaign team are @SayNoCPO; the delightfully named cerebral blog is @plainsofalmeria; and @CFCTruth provides an alternative view of CPO issues.