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…

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…to be European Champions.

(It wasn’t even our turn to win the FA Cup.)

At last I am starting to realise that Saturday night wasn’t just a dream. It really, really happened!

And now, after the event and with a sore head easing and reality setting in, I would like to give a quick reply to those people who have been saying our name was on the cup from the start – No. No, it wasn’t!

It’s true that as is normal for teams that win trophies, we had some moments of luck along the way, but there were many, many more moments when only determination or sheer hard work or pure skill made the difference.

And if you look at all our games, those moments are there in their hundreds, moments created by the players on the pitch and backroom staff off it.

Big decisions were made. Decisions that required consideration, intelligence and the skill and the guts to follow through.

It wasn’t “our turn” to win the cup. It wasn’t Fate. It wasn’t God. It wasn’t even a case of “things evening themselves out”.

Oh no, what it was, was determination, hard work and skill, shown by Chelsea players and by the management and the owner.

Take nothing away from the club, the squad, the individuals on (and off) the pitch. It was totally, one hundred per cent their effort and skill that resulted in the glory.

Let’s take nothing away from everyone Chelsea by saying stupid things like “it was Fate” or “it was our turn”.

Credit where it’s due: it was Chelsea. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

So congratulations to everyone involved from Roman, down through the club and out to all the fans. Everyone played a part: some played a bigger part than others but everyone contributed to putting our name on the role call of football history … AFTER the event.

Well done Chelsea. Pride of London. European Champions 2012.

Finally, the cup with the big ears resides in SW6.

After Robert Huth on the right wing in Monaco.

After Luis Garcia’s ‘goal’.

After Anders Frisk.

After penalties at Anfield.

After not losing to Barcelona with eleven men on the pitch.

After Ovrebo.

After Moscow.

After everything, Chelsea are European Champions.

Finally.

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

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.

 “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

So, Chelsea supporters, you’ve had a tough time of it recently. And now you’re off to meet Napoli in the Champions League, hoping against hope that this will be what brings your club back from the brink.

Well, in case you’ve been hiding under a rock, I’m here to tell you — this tie just might not be the simple one you’re wishing for. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that Napoli won’t be that easy to beat, particularly at home.

At first glance, it looks as though the partenopei are in a “crisis” similar to Chelsea. After all, they’re in sixth place in Serie A, and were just beaten by league newcomers Siena in the Coppa Italia. And yes, it really hasn’t been a fun season to be a fan of Napoli, unless you like frustration, roller coasters, and the fear that you’re about to have a heart attack.

The club wasn’t prepared to play in three competitions, and Coach Walter Mazzarri made some questionable decisions with the rotation of players.

But this is a squad that rises to the occasion, and hosting Chelsea will certainly be a reason for them to show off. Mazzarri won’t be present on the touchline, after shoving Nilmar during the 2-0 win over Villarreal, but that doesn’t mean his presence won’t be felt. He’ll certainly make sure that Napoli put their best faces forward.

Hugo Campagnaro is a doubt after limping off in the 3-0 victory over Fiorentina on Friday, but there are no other injuries or suspensions to deal with.

That means the starting XI should be predictable: Morgan De Sanctis; Gianluca Grava, Paolo Cannavaro, Miguel Britos; Christian Maggio, Walter Gargano, Gokhan Inler, Camile Zuniga; Marek Hamsik, Ezequiel Lavezzi; Edinson Cavani.

And of course it’s the front three that the Blues should be worried about: the Three Tenors, The Trident, and The Holy Trinity. A search through the matches in which Napoli have struggled reveal that these are the ones in which one of the threesome were dropped. Those who give the partenopei just a glance believe that it is Cavani that holds all the cards, and while it is true that the Uruguayan is a talisman of sorts, without Hamsik and Lavezzi, the system simply doesn’t work.

The two that support Cavani may not have his goal tally, but if Chelsea concentrate simply on stopping El Matador, they won’t be very effective. Hamsik, despite often being criticized by those who rarely watch him play, has the vision, is the one that reads the game and can execute the perfect pass at exactly the right moment. When he’s rendered ineffective, the entire team suffers. Then there’s Lavezzi, who can terrorize with his trickery, and whose pace will certainly frighten much of the Chelsea defense.

This isn’t to say Cavani won’t be a worry. He’s more than a simple poacher, a striker that relies upon service from the rest of the players. He certainly has a nose for goal, but Cavani invades the entire pitch, running back to defend before appearing in the box to head in a cross or nudge the ball into the net. With Chelsea’s backline looking so shaky as of late, it’s hard to imagine a scenario in which the partenopei don’t create multiple goal-scoring opportunities. And we haven’t even discussed the threat of Christian Maggio on the right wing — whichever makeshift left-back steps in for the visitors — won’t be prepared to handle his speed.

So, how to break down the partenopei? Overwhelm them in midfield and cross your fingers that the Chelsea defense is up to the task. And, of course, there’s Didier Drogba and Daniel Sturridge, whom I presume will be starting for Chelsea, the thought of which makes me anxious. The Napoli three-man backline has also had a tough time of it recently, and if Grava starts in place of Campagnaro, it will be even weaker.

The Blues certainly have more than a chance in this tie — if they can overcome their recent performances, that is. And, if they bring earplugs to drown out the noise of the San Paolo. That will be enough to get even the most experienced knees shaking.

This introduction to Napoli was contributed by Kirsten Schlewitz, who is a Napoli and Aston Villa fan, and contributes to 7500 to Holte and SB Nation Soccer. You can follow her on Twitter here @7500_Kirsten.

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.