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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment’s silence.

Didier struck the ball.

Neuer went the wrong way.

We had won.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re in Denmark

We’re in Denmark

We’re on the p..s

With Abramovich*

We’re in Denmark”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recommended Links

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

 plainsofalmeria.co.uk

mowingmeadows.wordpress.com

www.cfcnet.co.uk

transparentsport.com/cfcuk

Recommended Forums

ahfcchat.com

chelseafancast.com/forum

Social Media

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

You can also follow me @BlueBaby67

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are Ya?

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

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

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

What’s It All About, Then?

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

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

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

Clubbing Together

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

Just the Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can follow the fancast team on Twitter:-

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

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

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

Sometimes I sit in utter amazement; it’s pretty much like a hypnotic trance, you know when a snake is being serenaded by a snake charmer?

Some people think that I sit there in a hypnotic trance most of the time, but they’re the people I ignore and so I should. After all, the negative people in our lives should be distanced and expelled to somewhere more suitable.

There is a reason as to why I sit there in utter amazement and the fact of the matter is that some people have no logic, or should I go as far as saying that they have no brains, or if they actually do have any grey matter, they don’t use it to the best of their ability?

Life is a patience game, perhaps with age you begin to learn about patience, especially where Chelsea are concerned. Truthfully, supporting Chelsea should carry a health warning. I could start giving the old speech of ‘In my day’ but really, if I gave that speech then I would be here all day rabbiting on about the pre-Roman days, in fact, even the pre-Ken Bates days, but I won’t, not unless someone asks.

Talking of health warnings, I was in the ICU at the Royal Brompton Hospital in 2003, when Chelsea beat Leicester 2-1 at Stamford Bridge; our first home game under Roman. I just blame Spurs, it stems back to 1967, after all I must have known that they had beaten us in the FA Cup Final whilst in my Mum’s womb.

1973 wasn’t that much better, but that is altogether another story, un-Chelsea related, for which to this very day I still blame Spurs for. The first words uttered by me after waking up in the ICU by the way, happened to be “Did we beat Leicester?”

You see, my gripe comes from some irrational Chelsea fans that have very little patience; an example of this irritation comes from the first game of the season against West Bromwich Albion when a section of fans booed at half-time. I personally want to know if these are the same fans who asked on Twitter after three days of the transfer window if we had signed anybody.

To be quite honest, the transfer window drives me mad because all of the intolerable people, in my opinion, appear and say that Roman should spend his money on this player and that player, not giving a hoot about how much would be coming out of Roman’s wallet. These fans should actually think themselves lucky that we have Roman and perhaps could sing his name at games?

If you read the above thinking, that’s not me with regards to the booing and the transfer market ramblings, then great. I am personally not aiming my gripes at every Chelsea fan, but there are some that test my patience and believe me, I have an enormous amount of patience and take everybody on their own merits.

You see, I was in the middle of writing a piece a few months ago, but then aborted it. The piece went along the lines of being a Chelsea fan from 1905-1955. If I had been born in 1890 (Actually, if I had been born in 1890 I might not have survived to see Chelsea formed at all, which I’d blame Spurs for!)

By the time Chelsea were formed I’d have been 15, add on another fifty years and I would have been 65, before I had of seen Chelsea win anything. Personally I had to wait 27 years before I saw Chelsea win anything anyway, but I did say that I’m not going with the ‘In my day’ speech, there are fans the same age as me and older who faced the same length of time and more without seeing a major trophy.

The amazement I suppose cuts both ways, my amazement, apart from the above is that I realise how lucky I am that I was born in an era where I have seen Chelsea win more trophies than I ever thought that the club would, plus I am still alive (at the point of writing this anyway!)

I suppose my message here is for people to think of the past and to enjoy the here and now. Patience my friends, is a virtue, my love affair with Chelsea Football Club will last forever, will their love affair with Chelsea Football Club last forever too?

And we’re off! Boooo!!

With the second game under our belt, it feels like the season really is underway.

So it’s welcome back to Saturday afternoons following Chelsea through sun or rain – or even just in front of the pc or telly.

Welcome back to the sea of blue along the Fulham Road. Welcome back to the excitement. To the emotion. To the ardent fans.

And to a small minority of supporters who appear to think they are being clever by booing their own players.

Now some would argue they have a point. Against Stoke City we were not good. Truth is, we were poor in the first half but improved as the game went on and barring two good saves from Begovic we would have won.

Stoke were over-physical, and in my opinion a different ref may have been less tolerant with them. Perhaps our lack of a creative midfield player was shown up again, but The Britannia is a difficult ground and few will come away from there with a win this season.

Against West Brom it was more of the same: a poor first half, followed by increasing improvement in the second. So maybe they have a right to boo, these people? We are entitled to expect better from a team of overpaid prima…… oh yawn, I cannot write that crap, but you know the sort of thing: you hear it in many places after the game.

It’s the sort of logic that says a player must play well simply because his wage packet is massive. It goes along with the inane logic that booing your players will help them improve.

But what we saw at Stamford Bridge really was promising. Despite the fact that we were shocked by conceding an early goal and we struggled to gain some sort of control for the next half hour, we saw a performance that improved as the game went on. True, we could have gone 0-2 down; equally we could have gone in level at half time.

We saw Villas Boas have the bravery to make an early substitution; we saw chance after chance created in a second half of almost total domination. We saw Branislav Ivanovic come on so that we could maintain our pressing even further upfield, his pace minimising the risk of a breakaway as we pressed. We saw yet another almost-certain penalty appeal dismissed.

What else did we see? Nearly four times as many chances created, two or three times as many chances on target, seven corners compared to four, 54% of possession compared to 46%. And on top of that we saw Anelka equalise and then Bosingwa rip open the left hand side of their defence and send a perfect come-and-get-me ball across the area for Malouda to score. Game over: points won.

In short, we saw many positives. But we weren’t 3-0 up after ten minutes and we didn’t win 6-0 again, so obviously we didn’t see enough positives for these aficionados of the modern game. They booed.

But they paid their money, right. So they got a right, right?

Wrong.

I do not agree with those who believe that simply because they have paid a significant amount of money to watch the game, that they are entitled to express their negative opinion. They are not. What you pay for is right of entry into the ground, not a right to belittle and denigrate.

Morally and culturally it is both wrong and offensive to boo your own players.

Educated debate based on opinion is acceptable. Outright condemnation and denigration is not. In the emotional fervour of a packed stadium educated debate will always take second place to emotional reaction, but despite that, hostile derision and aggressive vilification of your own is unacceptable.

Let’s put it another way.

There are a minority in society who, for whatever reason, believe that the law is an ass. That’s their opinion: it does not give them the right to verbally abuse any policeman they see on duty.

Atheists are entitled to their beliefs. They are not entitled to abuse priests, vicars or rabbis when they are performing their duties. Similarly, those with religious beliefs are not entitled to sneer at atheists.

There are some who hold a view that British culture is being weakened and tarnished by the effects of immigration. I don’t personally follow their argument, but I guess they have a right to their view. What they do not have any right to do is to abuse human beings simply because they are, or appear to be, new to this country.

My analogies may not be perfect, but you get my drift?

So back to the game.

If you were one of the people who were booing on Saturday, could I ask you to do just one thing? It’s not difficult, even a moron with a migraine could manage it so I am sure that with a bit of effort even you can do it.

It’s simple: just don’t come to another game.

Now I know you are Chelsea through and through, maybe even your Dad and Grandfather were true blue. I’m sure you live and breathe Chelsea and spend every waking moment trawling through NewsNow for news of your heroes. I know you will stick up for Chelsea everywhere you go and will support them until you die.

But to be honest, we can do without your kind of support. That sort of negativity is, at best, pointless; at worst, it is highly damaging, both to the team and to individuals on the pitch. It’s not that I don’t understand your frustration. I do. We all share that at times. But you take it much too far.

I don’t know if you people (I won’t call you supporters, because you were not supporting) are the “Prawn Sandwich Brigade”. I don’t care, to be honest. All I care about is that you stop coming to Stamford Bridge.

Did you know that out there in the real world, in the world that does not revolve around you and your banal and facile existence, there are hundreds, possibly thousands of people who want to come to the Bridge to support Chelsea?

Note I said “…to support Chelsea”. Over land and sea. Through thick and thin. Good times and bad (the ridiculous thing is we’ve had nothing but good times in the last 10-15 years). Those people will be there to replace you. You won’t be missed.

And yes, they will shout and ooh and aah during a game. They will grumble when something bad happens, and drop their head into their hands when a pass goes astray. They will fall back into their seats with a moan and look skyward as they think “I could have bleedin’ scored that” as a shot powers skyward ten yards above the bar.

They will share the frustration of the fans around them when that happens. They will share the disappointment of the players. But they won’t boo.

Because unlike you, they are there to support the players. They’re not there for an afternoon’s entertainment. They wouldn’t even think of risking the morale of players or the performance of the team by behaving in such an unreasonably immature and irresponsible way.

Leave your seat available for someone who will support the players, the team and the club – when they need it most. On the pitch during a game.

We are all Chelsea. If you are a true Chelsea supporter you have a right to express your feelings. But during those ninety minutes you have an obligation, too: an obligation that outweighs your individual right.

As a Chelsea supporter you have an obligation to support.

So please, do us all a favour. If you want to boo, go to a pantomime.

As a Chelsea fan, how happy are you? I ask this now because, after the hugely-awaited Champions League game against Manchester Utd, I’m not happy.

The world’s most rubbish pre-match meal, combined with an extortionately priced vodka and lemonade, a log-jam at the turnstiles causing me not only to not get to the loo beforehand but to miss the first five minutes of the match and a hugely disappointing result has resulted in a distinctly grumpy baby.

This train of thought was started by a comment Martin Samuel made in his Daily Mail (apologies for citing the Mail in a family column) on Tuesday:-

“Football is locked in a cycle of violence, emotional if not physical, in which the majority of those in the stadium appear hugely dissatisfied at being there, as if they have been forced on to the pitch or into their seat at gunpoint.”

OK, the “cycle of violence” might be a bit of an exaggeration but the dissatisfaction element struck a chord with me and I responded in a comment which they printed:-

“There seems a general joylessness at football matches these days, even at successful clubs. The crowd seems to be divided into two – those who are there as tourists or on corporate jollies, or the genuine fanbase who are forking out a great deal of money in a time of hardship to watch multi-millionaires, most of whom wouldn’t give fans the time of day, and sometimes won’t even give 100% of their effort.”

This comment was borne of my own feelings at the moment. Our fans don’t seem happy. I’m not happy with the atmosphere in the stadium (non-existent at times last night during the biggest game of the season). Two many corporates/tourists have certainly spoiled the broth. And the emotional input of our players into the club seems also to have disappeared.

Although JT obviously loves the club and would run through a brick wall for it/us, he’s one of a dwindling number. Whilst Frank Lampard is a lovely guy, he seems preoccupied. Ashley will go wherever the money takes him. Drogba will do whatever’s best for Didier. Maybe that’s the true meaning of professional. You go out, you do your job and you get paid. And I think it’s rubbing off on the genuine fans.

The people for whom a trip to Chelsea is not part of a holiday to London, or a night out paid on someone else’s expenses. Us sad souls whose very existence is governed by the football schedule. Who scan the forthcoming fixtures on TV with anxiety to see how yet again the tradition of 3pm on a Saturday is fast becoming like the Holy Grail, almost impossible (all our weekend games in April are on a Saturday. Is this a record since we’ve become more successful?)

Before I moved to London, a matchday was broken up into components forming the whole. Train journey (and at the turn of the century given the state of the railways this would sometimes take up to 3 hours from Birmingham), pre-match meal, and match. The meal was quite important not only because of the length of my day, but not being a meat eater, a dog burger was out of the question.

The train journey was often the worst element, albeit much cheaper then (there was a magical time when you could get a walk-up day return to London for £14). And the most important bit. The match. And whilst 15 – 20 years ago we mightn’t have been seeing the quality that we often see now, there is no doubt in my mind that the players seemed happier and seemed to care more about the fans. Homegrowns such as Frank Sinclair, Eddie Newton and Andy Myers mightn’t have had the skill and/or talent of some players who’ve worn the shirt more recently, but at least they appeared to care.

For me the rot set in about 1998. Messrs Laudrup and Deschamps appeared to have absolutely no emotional rapport with the fans. Indeed Laudrup was unable to hack life in England altogether and soon disappeared. Deschamps hung on for a couple of years but was never a favourite – a really strong indicator of how fans feel is the song.

Did Deschamps ever have a song? Desailly struggled for one. A great player, but someone who appeared to be a professional in accordance with my definition. Coming up to date, how many players now don’t have songs? Ramires doesn’t have one (although he’s improving all the time). Boswinga never seems to have had one. Ashley Cole only tends to get one against Arsenal. I don’t think Cech’s ever had one. David Luiz, on the other hand, has gained instant cult status because he looks like he would like to die for the cause.

We as fans seemed happier early in the season, and this begs the question about correlation of happiness to on pitch success. Those early season romps against West Brom, Wigan and Blackpool, during which it looked as if we would carry all before us this season, seem an eternity ago. Is it the transition from likely Premiership winners to hoping to storm to 2nd place the cause? Is it the lack of free-flowing football we’ve seen in recent weeks?

Is it disillusionment over the apparent lack of commitment and willing to go for the jugular displayed by a number of our players? (best summed up by a friend of mine who had what the press described as “an altercation” with Drogba at Stoke last Saturday; he tells me the truth is the matter was misreported. He was by the corner flag and took exception to Drogba fannying about with a short corner when he thought a long corner might have resulted in a goal attempt.

They had a brief exchange of views and Paulo Ferreira did not have to drag Drogba away. My friend subsequently received a great deal of abused by a number of fans who feel that just because someone is wearing the shirt, they shouldn’t ever be criticised).

Personally my own happiness index could be measured mathematically as follows:-

Hopefully the elements will combine to produce the formula on Saturday.

So by now you’ve seen the image of the banners hung outside Cobham this morning, allegedly placed by a disgruntled Chelsea supporter.

Yet I’m sat here thinking there’s more to this than meets the eye.

Why was the banner a day late? If the supporter in question was fed up with the Wolves result, why didn’t they place it the morning after the match?

Ok they could have been late back from The Midlands, but still…. wasn’t it placed during the early hours anyway?

Equally, it’s a little convenient that there was a press conference due only hours afterwards, where the country’s media descended onto our training ground for the build up to our FA Cup match.

The predictable ‘supporter protest’ questions came early and Carlo handled them in good grace; “If it’s only one, there’s no problem. In Italy, it’s different. You can find outside the training ground 1,000 people not happy. It’s difficult to fight with 1,000. With one, you can manage.”

Echoing sanity, Carlo reasoned; “For a manager, it is important at this moment to have the support of the club, of the players, and obviously of the fans – minus one.”

What’s also fishy, is that almost all of the mainstream, and not so mainstream media have almost identical stories on what we’ve called ‘Bannergate’. Check out NewsNow, seriously, it’s almost as if they’ve all been written together.  As ever, the football is secondary to the headline.

You won’t find any Murdoch titles there, because he threatened to sue NewsNow and such sites for aggregating ‘his’ news, then cut them all off anyway and hid his content behind a paywall. Suits me, you’ve got to be a special kind of idiot to read that trash AND pay for the privilege.

However having played the media game a while, I’m all too aware of how it works. The journalists at the conference do exchange notes, and agree to a common theme for the next days news.  There are notable exceptions, but most are like pack animals, and they move together almost in unison, in all that they do.

It was especially apparent when Jose was manager, as his words could be snipped and quoted to fulfil any journalistic desire, yet Carlo is more coy and until recently, they’ve not really been able to get at him.

It’s widely known that the headline hunting tabloids will stoop to any depth in order to print something sensational. Phone tapping, entrapment, theft, coercion… in order to grab a few headlines, would you put a staged protest past them?

I certainly wouldn’t.