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…

There will come a point in time when I sit down and explain to my children precisely what it means to be a Chelsea fan.

I was told of the Kings Road swagger embodied by that ‘70s team and the legend of Osgood, Cooke, Bonetti and Harris; the sheer numbers of away support in the ‘80s and the rebirth of the club under Hoddle in the ‘90s.

I will tell my children about a certain Russian who has transformed the club, a certain Portuguese manager who was a Special sort of One, the Italian with the eyebrow and the former player who delivered the European Cup.

I will tell them of JT, Lampard, of Cech, Cole and the rest, but there will come a point where I tell them about the greatest and most complete centre forward this club has been blessed with.In an era where the word legend is thrown about far too easily; statues erected for players still plying their trade and footballers deemed too far out of touch with reality there is Didier Drogba.

Players do the odd bit of charity work. Legends build hospitals in their hometown and fly a kid with leukaemia to Switzerland for treatment.

Players keep themselves out of political affairs. Legends stop a civil war in their own country and could win an election tomorrow if they announced their participation.

Drogba the man is unquestionably a league above his peers, a rare breed among the ultra nouveau rich footballer. Shunning the champagne lifestyle to focus on his family and country.

Drogba the player? A tour de force of timing, technique, power, passion and drama. He was the epitome of what every world class footballer should be, someone that delivered consistently on the biggest stage of them all. He is a man driven by the sense of occasion, almost defined by the magnitude of the game or moment: a man who Eddie Newton claimed could simply just raise his game when it mattered. He is the embodiment of Chelsea Football Club.

John Terry before the FA Cup Semi-Final versus Tottenham Hotspurs quipped “Will you look at him, we’re not going to lose today.” Drogba then proceeded to make William Gallas look decidedly average and score one of the great Wembley goals. The rest was history as Mr. Wembley scored the decisive goal against Liverpool in the final and cemented himself in FA Cup folklore.

You only need to see how he speaks about the club, the genuine emotion and heartfelt good bye message to the fans to depict what the last 8 years have meant to him. One of the greatest images of Munich was the embrace of Lampard, Terry and Drogba. It was a full-circle from the demons each have faced from Moscow to this season. Lampard, almost crushed by he who shall not be named this year, Terry for that penalty miss and Drogba for that incident. It was the culmination of a season spent defying logic, defying the critics and defying even themselves at times.

Never has there been a bigger BIG GAME forward. There probably never will be again.

I honestly felt strangely calm as Drogba strode forward to take the biggest penalty in the history of Chelsea. A serene wave washed over me. It was almost like this was his moment. His final. His swansong. An ending that in a way was a microcosm of his entire journey at the club. The impudent short run up, the cultured swing of the right boot and the resulting goal that sent the entire Chelsea end into a place no one thought we would ever tread. European Champions.

That piece of control against Stoke. That spin and volley against Liverpool. That long ranger against Everton. The cheeky near post flick. Those performances against Arsenal. Wembley. Barcelona. Ups. Downs. That Munich header. That Munich penalty. Reducing grown men and women to tears with one penalty kick. How many big moments? How many big goals? How many pieces of brilliance could you write about when it comes to Drogba?

Didier Drogba leaves a legend.

9 finals. 9 goals.

157 goals. 71 assists. 338 appearances. Drogba contributed a goal every other game he played for the club. Every other game.

3 Premier Leagues. 4 FA Cups. 2 League Cups. 1 European Cup. 2 Community Shields. The King of Wembley. 10 (12) trophies in 8 years.

Drogba has absolutely redefined what it means to be a centre forward. He has played against and scored against every top side he has ever faced and defenders of Jamie Carragher’s quality have labelled him “unplayable”:

“If Chelsea get the ball on to Drogba’s chest on the edge of the box and he can bring it down and turn, well, that’s it. You can’t get round him without fouling him, it’s too late to get in front of him, you just have to hope he misses the shot.”

Jose Mourinho once famously said, “Judge him when he leaves the club.”

And we shall.

The greatest.

Didier, adieu.

You can let me know your favourite Didier moment either below in the comments section or on twitter. I am interested in your favourite goal; best performance & best memory. You can follow me on twitter @PlainsOfAlmeria and my personal account @JoeTweeds.

(Thanks to Joe for allowing this to be publishere here at TheChels. The article first appeared on the excellent Plains of Almeria)

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

Didier Drogba affirmed his status as the King of Wembley on Saturday with his eighth goal in as many competitive appearances under the new arch.

Keen statisticians will have noted that the decisive effort came courtesy of his supposedly ‘weaker’ left foot, and in fact, exactly half of his Wembley goals have come in that manner.

In honour of the goal and of another fantastic moment in his Chelsea lore, we present five of the best left footed Didier Drogba strikes:

Chelsea vs Liverpool, 17th September 2006
Drogba receives a long pass on the edge of the area before turning and rifling an unstoppable effort past a helpless Jose Reina.

Stoke City vs Chelsea, 12th September 2009
Drogba latches onto an exquisite reverse pass by Frank Lampard and shoots first time on the turn into the top corner.

Chelsea vs Everton, 12th December 2009
Ricardo Carvalho wins possession back in the Everton half and feeds Lampard, who simply touches the ball towards Drogba, and the first-time finish is exemplary.

Chelsea vs Arsenal, 3rd October 2010
Of his thirteen strikes against Arsenal, a number of have been impressive left-footed strikes but few surely as impudent and deft as this backheeled effort after fine approach play by Ramires and Ashley Cole.

Tottenham Hotspur vs Chelsea, 15th April 2012
One of the strikes at Wembley, Didier dominates for strength against William Gallas and sends a quite sensational shot rocketing past Carlo Cudicini.

Feel free to suggest your own left-footed Drogba classics, and let’s hope there’s one more special one saved up for Munich on the 19th.

Goals in consecutive Wembley FA Cup ties. An astonishing chip and key assist in home and away clashes against Barcelona. Relentless enthusiasm and energy impacting game after game.

Chelsea fans hardly need to be told about the impact of Ramires on the 2011/12 season, but as the campaign reaches the business end it has become more and more apparent that the Blues have another amongst their ranks who produces when the stakes are at their highest.

As Didier Drogba added to his Wembley lore and as Frank Lampard continued to extend his remarkable legacy, the Queniano Azul was busy at work affirming his status as one of the club’s best footballers.

It’s not just in the last month that he’s turned up when it matters most either. En route to the big game in Munich in a fortnight’s time, Chelsea faced win-or-bust ties at Stamford Bridge against Valencia, Napoli and Benfica, and on each occasion Ramires put in a sterling performance with a decisive impact.

He was directly involved in Branislav Ivanovic’s spectacular extra-time winner against the Italians, and his trademark lung-bursting running was there for all to see with the second goal against Valencia in December.

The Brazilian ensured that the road to Wembley got off to a good start with a brace against Portsmouth a week after grabbing a stoppage time winner away to Wolves at a time when the club’s league results and performances were decidely shaky.

He took some time to settle, and there were more than a few doubters during his first few months at the club, but as last season wore on he began to show signs of being the player he has been all season.

A superb solo effort against Manchester City was voted the club’s Goal of the Season and it’s a title he could well retain this time around with his exquisite chip in the Nou Camp.

Versatile enough to have been used in almost every midfield position required by Andre Villas-Boas and Roberto Di Matteo, he has been your prototypical box-to-box midfielder yet has also been the tactically adept winger able to retain shape and nullify the pronounced threat of attacking full-backs like Daniel Alves.

Unfortunately, the man with no song will be missing in Munich and whilst Branislav Ivanovic, Raul Merieles, and John Terry are all big omissions in their own right, it speaks volumes that Ramires is considered to be the hardest loss of all for Chelsea fans.

The way he’s played of late, it’s not hard to understand why.

In the second edition of the Chelsea ‘IF’C series we travel back to the turn of millennia and imagine “What if… Lionel Messi had been found by the Chelsea scouts and was signed by the Blues”

Yes, he probably would’ve been sold to Huddersfield Town or shipped off abroad only to shine on international waters and make the fans wonder “why have we let another one go?” But what if he managed to replicate his progress at Barcelona and even have his size overlooked (This really is a fictional tale). Well he’d obviously struggle on a rainy day in Stoke… but let’s face it, who doesn’t?!

It’s the year 2000 and the Chelsea scouting system has been busy, the club have had little funds to spend on bringing in new players, so bargain buys and talented youth players have been the focus of the club’s transfer policy. After an extensive search reaching as far wide as Rosario in Argentina, where the scouts report they have found a gem, a diamond in the rough, excited by the prospect Chelsea sign the youngster and in the summer there is a new face at the Harlington training ground.

The youngster is reserved and even for his age (13) he is diminutive in size. He doesn’t speak English but he doesn’t need to, he amazes those in attendance with his skill on the ball, he lets his feet do the talking. Staff and players alike turn to each other and a buzz is already being created but there are worries about his size. For all the skill in the world, the Premier League, the competition he will have to grow up competing in is physically draining. To make matters worse he suffers from a growth hormone deficiency, but Chelsea are prepared to finance his medical costs. Of those watching the little Argentinian, one Chelsea player has taken particular interest, Gianfranco Zola approaches the youngster and asks him what his name is, to which he replies “Lionel Messi”.

Messi finds his first few years are a struggle to adjust, the coaches say that his ‘footballing brain’ is far too advanced for this level and that others around him find it difficult to keep up. Individually his star shines brighter than anyone they’ve seen. I got the chance to interview him as his English had improved.

When asked what he thinks has gone wrong he answers “What, they call this…’Route one’ football, it is just not for me. I’ve tried to adapt but I prefer playing with the ball on the ground” he is humble and from what I can tell hungry to learn and yearns to improve. Maybe we can make a player out of him yet.

It’s 2004. His goal scoring records in the youth and subsequently the reserves are frighteningly good. Not known for its production of youth in its recent past, the Chelsea academy has long awaited Lionel Messi’s chance at the big time and his performances have been noted by new manager Jose Mourinho and the self proclaimed ‘Special One’ is prepared to give Lionel Messi his debut at the age of 17. He plays on the right of a front three and immediately impresses, his first game is against Arsenal and his ability coupled with new signing Arjen Robben are too much for the gunners to handle down the flanks. Chelsea win the game 3-1. In his next few games, Messi fails to have the same impact. His physical presence comes into question with the media claiming that he is too weak for the Premier League. (If only they looked at actual talent, eh?)

A long winter was to follow, fans wondering if it would be better for Messi to go on loan or if his style was better suited to a team like Barcelona (They must have been having a laugh, right?). Mourinho still stuck with his guns and kept the young 17 year old at the club but performances went from bad to worse. A poor work rate on the field was met with trouble off it. Messi was living every 17 year olds dream life, but was he throwing it all away? Kept out the team by Robben and Duff, he failed to make his substitute appearances pay and remained on the sidelines.

Despite all this, he had built a relationship with manager Jose Mourinho and the pair seemingly shared a more father/son relationship rather than player/manager.

“He’s not one from the bottle. He’s like me, special,” said Mourinho when asked about Messi.

Was the manager really prepared to throw away the title bid, to accommodate the player he loved as a person? Thankfully for Chelsea they didn’t have to find out. A knee ligament injury ruled Messi out for the season and the team seemed all the better for it. They raced to the league title without their promising youth player, who unfortunately had only played 9 games in the season and therefore missed out on a winners medal.

Messi now 18, was maturing slightly on the field but his off the field antics worsened. Pictured clubbing before match days, the Argentinian was doing his best impression of Brazilian legend Ronaldo, however his performances weren’t good enough to excuse his behaviour. Which wasn’t far off him receiving an ASBO.

Finding first team opportunities hard to come by and showing that he was far too good for the reserve league in the country, Messi was loaned out to Ajax, a team renowned for its upbringing of youth. He raised eyebrows in the Eredivise, playing an integral part in their bid for the title, in which victory was sealed on the last day of the season. He racked up 12 goals and 14 assists in his 30 appearances. His form in Holland saw him called up to the Argentinian national team for the first time and although early days in his career he was drawing comparisons with former great Diego Maradona. Not convinced by his achievements in Holland many still question whether he can pull of the same back in the Premiership for Chelsea who won their second straight Premier League title.

On his return to Chelsea, Messi is told he is being loaned out to Championship side Nottingham Forest to get a feel for the English culture and its style of football. Reluctantly he accepts but when told for the first game of the season he will start on the bench, Messi packs his bag and goes on a vacation to Argentina, reports circulate that he spends most of his proposed 3 month loan period at Forest, playing golf.

Not one for tough love, Mourinho defends his star pupil and puts an arm round his shoulder after convincing Messi to return to Stamford Bridge. With ten games left in the season, Chelsea’s attacking options have been limited through injury and their title hopes hang in the balance, Chelsea need Messi to step and to fulfil the potential everyone has seen in him. Next stop is away to Stoke on a Tuesday night, the recently promoted side have built a fortress at the Britannia Stadium. Pouring down with rain and the pitch in almost unplayable condition, Mourinho names his team sheet with the little Argentinian in the starting XI.

“He could never do it on a rainy day in Stoke…” The phrase became history after an incredible one man display, Messi scored 4 and set up the other in a crushing 5-0 victory. To quote a line from a Hercules song “You can shout it from the mountain top, A STAR IS BORN.” The little boy from Argentina became a man tonight.

In a magnificent turnaround, Messi’s attitude has been changed. First in, last one out at training he seems to have now understood what it takes to be the best in the world.

Chelsea are propelled up the table in the following games, relying on his incredible talent alone to take the game by the scruff of the neck. Never has a 19 year old shown this much promise in the Premier League. Going into the final day of the season Chelsea are one point behind leaders Manchester United and prior to the game, Alex Ferguson has a few words to say about the new sensation.

“They told me I couldn’t win anything with kids, now I’m hoping it’s true. We have a couple of young talents here in Rooney and Ronaldo, but this lad plays like he’s not from this world.”

As the line ups are announced, what seemed an unlikely event a few months ago is now reality (It’s reality within a dream, inception style). Messi is the source of the biggest cheer from Chelsea fans, he has scored 13 goals in his previous 9 games. From kick-off the United team look frightened of him, he’s everywhere like an energiser bunny from the adverts. The crowd are reminded of a young Zola but even better. As he goes on what has become one of his famous dribbling exhibitions, he leaves Rio Ferdinand flat on the floor and the rest of the team chasing shadows as he lobs the ball over keeper Edwin Van Der Sar… who was still on his line!

Chelsea win the game 2-0, they’re champions once again but more importantly so is Lionel Messi. He picks up the award for young player of the year for his contribution to the champions.

Oh and just before you thought the fairytale story was over, Messi would go on to become the World’s best player an unprecedented five times and lead Argentina to World Cup glory. Not to mention win successive Champions League titles for Chelsea (Still Pele argues that he scored 600 more goals in his career). Claims that he was the greatest ever, mooted by Spanish reports that he couldn’t pull off such performances “On a sunny day in Malaga…”

Investment in the youth has gone a long way and history has been rewritten.

This piece originally aired on Mowing Meadows.

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

Chelsea are only one perfect performance away from heading to Munich. One performance away from having a chance at finally lifting the UEFA Champions League.

This more than anything is what we want most. It’s the one Terry and co. haven’t won. The one that has eluded us through refereeing ineptitude, wild controversy and plain old bad luck. The side that progresses will be the one that wants it more.

We’ve been here before. We have shown that we are capable, if any side in europe is? We can beat Barcelona. We did it last week, and without allowing Barca an away goal. And that means we don’t have to win on this most vital of Tuesdays.

Let us put the past behind us though, but who can forget the most impressive opening of any Chelsea side with Duff slotting home. Or the sublime goal of the ever impressive Frank Lampard from an impossible angle that he maintains he did intend. Or even Ashley Cole crossing to Drogba who spun and smashed the ball home. Maybe we shouldn’t forget the past, lest we doom ourselves to make the same mistakes.

It doesn’t take a talismanic Ivorian forward to know that we’ve been robbed in the past against this over-hyped Barcelona side, and ‘f***ing disgracefully’ at that. That doesn’t matter though. We can only try control what we actually can control. We can’t control the fact that commentators the world over will fail to objectively report the game. We can’t control the referee. For large parts of the game we won’t control the ball.

Chelsea haven’t changed much from the side that saw Iniesta steal that goal in 2009, but neither have they. Barcelona play through the middle. They have no real width. They have no true striker. They lack a truly world-class goalkeeper. They have revolutionised football without ever having a plan B.

Messi can be stopped, he has never scored a goal against Chelsea. Xavi can be stopped, I call it the Mikel effect. Before the first leg Pep Guardiola, who is no Special One, just very familiar with the Catalunyan way, admitted difficulty in formulating how to create scoring opportunities against Chelsea. He wasn’t bluffing. He now claims he has no doubts they will prevail.

Now he is bluffing, as even the happiest married couple will tell you, there are always doubts. It won’t be easy, as playing any great side is never easy, but we are a great side too. Even if we aren’t thought of as such. If we lift The Champions League trophy in Munich that might change though.

We must be dynamic. We must be at the top of our game. Barcelona will play their pretentious form of anti-football that monopolises possesion, but we have to play the Chelsea way. The defensive discipline, the decisiveness in front of goal and the refusal to lose. Cech and Mikel have returned to form. Mikel’s interception of Robin Van Persie’s little disguised pass on saturday was nothing short of brilliant.

Gary Cahill and John Terry need to be immense again, and continue displaying a solidity that must have the english FA licking their collective lips. Ivanovic cannot be caught out as often as he was in the first leg. Didier Drogba’s one man campaign of terror must continue, on his day he is simply unplayeable. Ashley Cole must allow the world to see he is the best left-back on the planet, yet again.

Mata cannot drift out of the game completely for long periods. Frank Lampard must once again prove ageist sceptics wrong; yes, he is a better player than Steven Gerrard. Ramires must put in a yet another player-of-the-season performance. If we play to our strengths and do what we must do, we can do what too many don’t believe Chelsea can.

If we can somehow nick a goal and maintain our shape for the entirety of the match we will go through to the final, but we can’t play for a scoreless draw and we can’t waste possession when we do have it.

The team that wants it the most will progress. Has the Barcelona bubble popped? Are they about to experience the joy people have in tearing down heroes and making them villains? Will we have a shot at ultimate glory come the final or will we once again rue what might have been? I think the final result will be 0-0 in the Camp Nou.

Mission Possible. As always blue is the colour. See you in Munich.

TheChels.net welcomes Mowing Meadows and the Chelsea IF’C series; taking a look at what could have happened IF an event in the past occurred differently at Chelsea FC and how events would unfold there on after.

In the first of a regular series to be serialised on this website, we begin our first instalment with a look at ‘what if’ Nicolas Anelka wasn’t banished from the club and exiled to China. ‘What if’ Nicolas Anelka remained at Chelsea and after the sacking of Villas-Boas, the player nicknamed ‘Le Sulk’ was made the interim manager.

Not many would’ve bet on Nicolas Anelka ever becoming a manager, he never looked the managerial type. Yet, football is an unpredictable game on and off the field and Nicolas Anelka finds himself as player/manager at his current club Shanghai Shenhua to the surprise of many in the footballing world I’m sure.

Rewind, it is March 4th and Chelsea have parted ways with Villas-Boas after his rocky tenure. In a surprise move, Roman Abramovich has bowed down to player power and installed Nicolas Anelka as player manager. His fellow colleagues are delighted at the appointment. Anelka prefers a more Laissez-faire approach compared to the more autocratic style of his predecessor and the players couldn’t be happier. The decision has left fans somewhat bemused but a situation like this requires outside of the box thinking. A criticism of AVB was the lack of playing experience, the same cannot be said for Mr. Anelka.

In his first press conference, Anelka is asked what he thinks owner Roman Abramovich saw in him in terms of managerial qualities and why he decided to take on the role?

“I have always thought that there was a manager in me. I knew it was something I wanted to do ever since I told that fool Domenech where he could go, if he could manage then so could I!” Anelka responded. “As for the qualities I bring… well I get along with the players, I’m a man of the people. I’ve learnt many things from those who have coached me and I will look to impart that knowledge on those that have now become my students.” (For those unaware that means teaching laziness and excellent hold up play)

After one too many questions however the Frenchman decided that he was bored of the media’s enquiries and left the press conference in a blaze of glory.

On the training pitch, Anelka’s attempts in boosting team morale mean more sessions playing ‘hide and seek’ and less time focusing on the nuances that are involved in the game of football. He claimed that as a footballer you either have “it” or you don’t. One thing is evident, the players seemed to be enjoying their time under Anelka more than any other manager. For a man nicknamed ‘Le Sulk’ he sure knows how to bring a smile on other people’s faces.

First game in charge. Birmingham Vs Chelsea – FA Cup replay. The blues line up in their traditional 4-3-3 formation with a return of the old guard apparent. Chelsea go on to win the game 3-0. Man of the Match Daniel Sturridge was interviewed on the impact of the new manager and how he thinks it will change his game. “The boss has done a marvellous job in the few days he’s been here. He made us play FIFA and every player had to control themselves on the game and play how they wanted to in real life, I think I managed to do that today.” (Well, at least we have an explanation for his solo play) It would appear that Gary Neville was on to something when he claimed that David Luiz was reminiscent of a player being controlled by a 10 year old kid.

Anelka and Chelsea face their biggest task in the return leg of the Champions League against Napoli, The Blues face a 3-1 deficit after the first leg. It’s nights like these were people find out if a manager is worth their salt. In an incredibly open affair the score stands at 4-2 in the 85th minute, with Chelsea on the verge of elimination via away goals. Growing tired and frustrated at the lack of attacking threat since their fourth goal. Player/Manager Nicolas Anelka subs himself on, a scene reminding Chelsea fans of another former manager Gianluca Vialli. The 33 year old striker comes on with immediate impact, latching on to a flick on from Didier Drogba, Anelka rounds the keeper and slots in the winner. Pandemonium in the stands and Chelsea are through to the Quarter Finals. Chants of “There’s only one Nicolas Anelka” echo into the night, a truly memorable day for the club.

In the league, Chelsea have enjoyed a rich vain of form and occupy 4th spot after a brilliant month. 4 wins out of 4 for Anelka’s boys including a crucial victory over Champions League hopefuls Tottenham result in a manager of the month award for the man being labelled as “Le spécial” has taken the league by storm and earned the plaudits from managers around the league.

“He’s a breath of fresh air, I’m thinking of putting some of his methods to use myself,” said Sir Alex Ferguson

“We French people are brilliant at getting the best out of players and he certainly is no different,” Arsene Wenger added.

Any doubts the fans had over the appointment of Anelka have now been expelled, banners around Stamford Bridge now crying out for Abramovich to make the role permanent for the man who only a few months ago was on the fringe of the squad, but he has never looked back since turning down the Chinese club Shanghai Shenhua.

“It’s great to see the team playing with such style and you can tell they’re enjoying themselves. The unity they show is always on display when everyone does Nico’s butterfly hand celebration,” one Chelsea fanzine editorial noted.

Having breezed into the Semi-Finals of the Champions League after dismantling Portuguese side Benfica, Chelsea set up a clash with European rivals Barcelona. Whilst domestically the club are set for another trip to Wembley having easily dispatched of a Tottenham side suffering a catastrophic collapse in the Semi-Final of the FA Cup (Harry Redknapp was sacked after the game and the FA declared they would be looking elsewhere for their England manager vacancy. A crying shame that).

With their Champions League place virtually secured in the league, the Frenchman’s focus is solely on the upcoming Champions League clash with Barcelona and he does not have fond memories of the club that knocked Chelsea out in controversial fashion only three years ago.

“They’re cheats. Nothing more, nothing less.” Anelka roared in the pre match press conference. “We come into the match with great form and self belief, we haven’t lost a game during the time I’ve been in charge and I think we can avenge the demons that haunt us from those years back.”

In a fierce battle during the first leg at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea marched out victorious. A 3-1 lead is what they take to Catalonia, it would’ve been 3-0 but for an incredible solo effort from Lionel Messi in the 90th minute has given the Spanish giants hope with an all important away goal.

April 24th, Barcelona. The two teams walk out on to the field in front of a packed Camp Nou. The omens aren’t kind on Chelsea, astonishingly UEFA have appointed Ovrebo as referee for the game to the dismay of the fans and club as a whole. 10 minutes in, Jose Bosingwa is sent off for an ‘elbow’ on Busquets, typical. Barcelona make their numbers advantage count and have a 2-0 lead at half time. Anelka and Chelsea have their work cut out, but in an awe inspiring half time team talk, one that Mike Bassett himself would’ve been proud of, Anelka rallies his troop for a monumental effort. The next 45 minutes would go down in history, as Chelsea played at a level few thought capable, especially given the fact they were a man short. In an epic comeback, Juan Mata scored a second half hat trick in a game that finished 3-3, the few Barcelona fans left in the Camp Nou gave the Spaniard a standing ovation as the final whistle blew. A Champions League final visit awaits against former boss Jose Mourinho.

Munich, Allianz Arena. Champions League final. Chelsea finished the season in fourth place after taking their foot off the gas towards the end of the season but bagged silverware along the way with an FA Cup final victory over the red half of Merseyside, courtesy of an Andy Carroll own goal and Torres brace (You couldn’t make this stuff up). Main event time! Anelka faces the team that made him a champion of Europe and wants to recreate the feat as a manager, Mourinho’s team have recently been crowned La Liga champions, with any luck the team will be suffering from a hangover effect from their domestic dominance. This is a ‘what if’ that grabs that notion by the horns and runs with it. Chelsea are the superior side in the final and it’s a fairytale story for the club that seemed doomed at the beginning of March, they go on to win the match 2-1 but the scoreline flatters Real Madrid who were never really in the game.

“Champions of Europe” the Abramovich dream is fulfilled and all thanks to a stroke of genius by the Russian to employ one of his players as manager. History has been rewritten.

This piece originally aired on Mowing Meadows.