Saturday 1 December 2018

Monaco v Chelsea - the madness of King Claudio the Tinkerman


Extract from Over Land and Sea a Chelsea Football Odyssey 

by Mark Worrall first edition published in 2004 by Gate 17


AS MONACO FC
V
CHELSEA

UEFA Champions League
Semi-final First Leg
Stade Louis II   Monaco
Tuesday April 20th 2004 

‘Seriously … is that what the cab driver said?’ I asked, raising my eyebrows to indicate my genuine surprise.
‘I’m telling you son, that’s exactly what he said, didn’t he Baby Gap,’ replied Ossie, kicking a small pebble along the concrete esplanade on which we were walking.
Baby Gap Brian skipped after the pebble and back heeled it me. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled, squinting into the warming rays of the mid-morning sun and adjusting his sunglasses, ‘he said, “You are Chelsea yes … then you must fuck Monaco, they are a bad team, bad people, bad money, fuck zem for ze rest of France yes”, which seemed a bit on the harsh side knoworrimean.’
‘Just a bit mate,’ I replied, kicking the pebble into the crystal clear water of the adjacent marina. ‘What is it about these teams eh? When we were in Rome it was the same with Lazio … mind you, I suppose back home if you’d spoken to a Porto supporter over here for their game with Man U the other week, you would probably have said the same sort of thing.’
‘Funny thing is though Porto did fuck Man U ha ha,’ said Ossie, looking back across the yacht basin to see if Ugly John and his mate Jogger were still on their own by the hire car.
***
It was 10.30am and we were kicking our heels in Beaulieu sur Mer, one of the many picturesque resort towns that are dotted along the entire length of the N98 coastal road which snaked along the entire length of the French Riviera.
It had been a particularly early start for me today; being awoken at 3.55am by the cacophony created by several alarm clocks, the alarm function on my mobile phone and the TV which I’d programmed to switch itself on at this time was not conducive to putting you in the best frame of mind.
“There’s nothing good about that”, Ossie would have bleated, if he’d been misfortunate enough to have to rise at this time of the morning … but he hadn’t. Both he and Baby Gap had flown out to Nice from Luton the previous evening and kept me awake until 1.00am with a barrage of text messages each detailing in increasingly lurid detail the quality of the local female talent that was dancing the night away in bar called Le Havane which they’d happened on as they’d returned from a late evening stroll along the Promenade des Anglais.
Setting a new personal best for the time it took me to get up and get ready, I’d then managed the drive to Gatwick in a license threatening thirty minutes which enabled me to rendezvous on time with Ugly John and his mysterious acquaintance Jog-On at the easyJet check in desk.
The flight to Nice had departed without delay, arriving on schedule an hour and a half later at 9.30am local time. On arrival we’d picked up a hire car that Ugly John had secured a special deal for and Jog-On got behind the wheel and drove the short distance from the airport into the city centre.
Ugly John, sporting a new particularly bristly suedehead haircut, was becoming increasingly adept at putting our travel packages together and wheeling and dealing on the final price. Not only had he booked our trip, but he’d also sorted out Ossie and Baby Gap and also the rest of the Chelsea Gate 17 boys who were flying out from Bristol and scheduled to arrive in Nice at around midday.
Jog-On, a lean suntanned balding man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Michael Stipe the lead singer of REM, was an ex work colleague of Ugly John’s and an occasional Chelsea supporter. When questions had been asked about his Gate 17 pedigree, Ugly John had told us that Jog-On knew the  south of France like the back of his hand and more importantly he’d also agreed to do all the driving.
Being navigationally challenged when it came to driving on the continent, I was more than happy that the mantle of vehicular responsibility now lay with Jog-On who’d confidently found his way to the Kyriad Hotel in  Nice where Ugly John had booked our accommodation.
As it turned out Ugly John had played his Joker in bringing along Jog-On whom, after we’d checked in and met up with Ossie and Baby Gap, had made a call in fluent French to a ticket tout who had five tickets for sale for this evenings match.
Jog-On had sourced the tickets on the French version of E-Bay and had arranged to meet the tout in Beaulieu sur Mer to complete the transaction. The tickets were not going cheap. Geordie Jase had paid a London based ticket agency £200 for a ticket with a face value of 30 Euros, which at the prevailing exchange rate converted to £21.28!
The five tickets Jog-On had sourced were going to cost 150 Euros ( £106.38) each. Young Dave had a contact that worked in Monaco who had told him he would be able to get us any further tickets we required for the same price.
Young Dave and I had acquired two tickets from Chelsea directly through the same ‘Eddie Barnett letter system’ that had seen us secure tickets for the Arsenal away match. The club still had the audacity to load the price, charging us £25 for a 30 Euro ticket and profiting once again from those fans that represented their most loyal support.
Chelsea’s official ticket allocation for the match was a meagre 1400 which reflected the low capacity of Stade Louis II. With 2500 blues fans anticipated to make the journey it was obvious that black market tickets would be priced at a premium and that the touts would rake in a handsome profit.

***
‘Oi Marco, over here son … oi lads come on.’
I looked back down the promenade now shaded by the low-hanging mulberry trees that were planted evenly along its perimeter with the marina and saw Ugly John beckoning me over to where he was stood with Jog-On.
As we walked back I could see that a black VW Golf had parked up alongside our car and two youngish looking lads were talking to Jog-On whilst Ugly John looked on with a worried expression on his face.
‘Show me your ticket Marco,’ said Ugly John, clicking the fingers of his right hand impatiently. I got my ticket out of my wallet and gave it to Ugly John who held it up to the light and closely inspected the security hologram.
‘Yeah … spot on,’ he said, handing me back my ticket and nodding at Jog-On and the two touts who couldn’t have been aged more than seventeen or eighteen. Ugly John and Jog-On concluded the transaction whilst we looked on. The two touts counted out the money to each other and then the four of them shook hands.
‘Enterprising little bastards,’ said Jog-On, as we watched the touts get into their car and speed out of the marina car park. ‘They told me that they were still at school and had to get back for a maths lesson,’ he continued, shaking his head as he shuffled the five match tickets in his hands.
‘Nice work Jog-On,’ I said, giving him the thumbs up, ‘at the end of the day, who gives a fuck … everyone’s happy, you lot now get to see the match and they’ve probably just made more cash in ten minutes than their maths teacher makes in a fortnight … all easy.’
***
Jog-On suggested that we drive back a couple of kilometres towards Nice and have a few beers at a terrace café he knew in a place called Villefranche sur Mer. As he drove slowly back along the cliff top road and then negotiated the hairpin bends that eased our descent into the town, I looked down across the red tile roofs of what was sign posted vieille ville (old town), and my eyes lingered on the yellow washed walls of the tall narrow bell-tower that formed part of a medieval looking church.
The view was picture postcard perfect. I followed my line of sight down the steep slope, along the narrow cobblestone streets that cut through quiet looking squares and across the long sandy strip of beach that flanked the Mediterranean Sea. 
‘Fuck me, that’s a view innit,’ I said, inarticulately voicing my opinion as I marvelled at the way the suns rays shimmered and sparkled on the tranquil surface of the sea which was the type of blue that you always imagined the sea would be when you were a small inner city child.
Chorus lines of gangly palm trees fringed the beach and completed the panorama which began to narrow in my perspective as Jogger drove the car the last few hundred metres down into the town.
***

‘They got that right didn’t they the old Frog’s,’ said Baby Gap Brian, as we made our way through a vaulted passageway that led us into the chocolate box square which was home to the terrace café Jog-On had spoken of.
‘What?’ asked Ugly John, rubbing his stomach as he spotted three elderly couples sat outside the café sipping what was most probably ice cold beer from thin stemmed crystal glasses.
‘Calling it er er that er er the Cote d’ Azur … the blue coast,’ replied Baby Gap Brian hesitantly, distracted as we all were by the nut brown tanned, raven haired beauty who exhibited catwalk style deportment as she sashayed passed us.
‘It’s called the blue coast not cos of the colour of the sea but cos they make a lot of blue movies here, with birds like that in em,’ I said nonchalantly, smiling as I watched the female halves of the couples arch their eyebrows disapprovingly as their partners drooled at the girl as she walked on by.
With the sun high in a cloudless, pastel blue sky and the gentlest of sea breezes fanning our faces we sat, continental style, outside the café savouring the chilled out atmosphere that Villefranche sur Mer afforded us.
‘Tina Turner lives here,’ said Ossie, as he drew our attention to a couple of exquisite looking women who were stood at the top end of the square talking to one another.
‘Funny aint it,’ I said, as I perused the menu contemplating what to eat, ‘we’re here to watch Chelsea and we haven’t even spoken about the match yet.’ I shook my head as a youngish woman rode by on one of those vintage looking ‘sit up and beg’ bicycles. Her long blonde hair flowed behind her as she pedalled effortlessly past us and as she did so I wanted to call out ‘excuse me’ so that she would look my way allowing me to put a face to the youthful vitality she exuded.
Well since you’ve mentioned it,’ said Ugly John, pursing his lips and blowing a kiss after the girl on the bicycle, ‘whaddya reckon?’
‘I think we’re gonna lose 3-1,’ I replied, lighting up a Marlboro and inhaling deeply before expanding on my prediction. ‘And I’ll tell you why I think that, it’s a confidence thing … like a Chelsea thing, like you never know what’s gonna happen. We won at Arsenal and Claudio Ranieri and the lads were drenched in a waterfall of positive publicity … then what happens?’
‘We aint won since,’ answered Jog-On, moving his chair in such a way that he now had the best vantage point to view the comings and goings in the square. ‘A couple of dour 0-0’s and a beating away at Villa … and all of a sudden the same old questions are being asked of Claudio, his team selections and strategy.’
Jog-On was right, one minute the papers were full of praise for Ranieri, the next they were full of stories about Peter Kenyon flagrantly courting other managers, the latest rumoured to be the Aston Villa boss David O’Leary and FC Porto’s highly regarded young coach Jose Mourhino.
‘I reckon Marco’s got a point,’ said Ossie, signalling the waiter to bring five more beers to our table. ‘Bill Gallas being out worries me, and we miss out not having Duff as an option … dunno about conceding three goals … mind you, they can score this lot and that Morientes is proper tasty up front.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, licking my lips with hungry anticipation as our waiter placed the plate of freshly fried squid I’d ordered on the table in front of me. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prophet of doom but I’ve just got a bad feeling about this one cos I’m not feeling anything, no pmt nothing … fuck me this squids lovely, drizzled in a lime and chilli sauce ooooh,’ I continued, speaking with my mouth full as I began to eat my lunch.
‘Well lads,’ said Ugly John, looking up from his mobile phone, ‘it looks like we might as well stay here for a bit cos the Monaco plod have ordered all the bars to stop serving alcohol between 3 and 9pm … just had a text message from a mate of mine who lives there saying that they are coming down hard on anyone behaving rowdily and wearing colours.’
‘Well that suits me son,’ I said, voicing everyone’s opinion for them. ‘Young Dave and that lot don’t land in Nice for another hour or so … let’s wait for them to call and then we can arrange to meet up in Monaco at around 4pm.’
No one objected in the slightest, so we remained a while longer sitting in the sunshine enjoying our lunch whilst swapping anecdotes and theories which were occasionally interspersed with comments about the ladies of Villefranche and what we’d to do to them.
‘Kipling!’ said Ossie, stirring us from the daydreaming we had succumbed to following lunch and several sunshine beers.
‘Where!’ said Baby Gap Brian, jolting forward in his chair as if he’d just been poked with an electric cattle prod.
‘Uh … huh, they won’t have them cakes here,’ I said, yawning and hoping that the adrenalin buzz of being away with Chelsea would kick in soon to rid me of my soporific mood.
Jog-On looked on, his poker face inscrutable. I waited for him to pass comment but he didn’t. Ugly John removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes before cracking the joints of his knuckles one by one. He knew that Ossie was about to volunteer some profound piece of trivia related to Chelsea that would leave us scratching our heads in a bewildered manner.
‘Not Mr Kipling of exceedingly good cakes fame,’ said Ossie, pausing to stretch his arms Seagull style, an act which prompted a series of squawks from Baby Gap, Ugly and myself that had everyone sat nearby drawing their sunglasses down the bridges of their noses and peering at us suspiciously. ‘No … no, I mean Rudyard Kipling … the geezer that wrote Jungle Book.’



GATE 17 MONACO

‘What about him then?’ I said, wondering what tenuous link there might be between a famous poet and Chelsea. It had to be a link with Chelsea as that was to be Ossie’s specialist subject should he ever be asked to appear on Mastermind.
‘His poetry inspires Claudio,’ replied Ossie, sitting forward in his chair knowing that he now had our full and undivided attention.
‘Fuck off,’ said Baby Gap Brian, smirking, ‘what like his team selections are inspired by Balloo the fucking bear and that irritating little kid Mowgli … I should bleedin coco … mmm mind you though.’
‘I’m being serious,’ said Ossie, standing up and making a theatrical gesture with his left hand that Sir Larry would have been proud of. ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat these two impostors just the same and all that and everything er er then something and er … you will be a man my son. It’s from Kipling’s poem ‘If’. Claudio said, he’d read it as a kid and he continued to read it now when he needed to reassure himself about what he was doing and why.’
‘Good story,’ I said, looking at the time on my watch. ‘And your prediction Ossie for tonight is?’
‘1-1,’ said Ossie, gaining the agreement of everyone except Ugly John who flicked V signs with both hands to indicate his prediction of the match result was 2-2.
At that point my phone rang; it was Young Dave calling to inform me that he and the rest of the crew were on the ground in Nice and mobilising themselves for the final push to Monaco … by helicopter. A 20km journey that would take less than ten minutes and cost each of them 50 Euros.
***
The Principality of Monaco is a sovereign and independent state that shares borders on its landward side with several communes of the French Department of the Alpes-Maritimes. Seawards, Monaco faces the Mediterranean. The Principality, renown for being the playground of the rich and famous, is no bigger than Hyde Park and yet has more police per square metre than any other country in the world.
Normally their function is to protect the riches of its citizens and non-French residents, however today they were out in force to ensure that order was maintained before, during and after the match.
‘Rule Britannia … Britannia rules the waves … Britons never, never, never shall
be slaves …’
Ronny Cutlass and ten of his cohorts were gathered outside a small bar in the shopping precinct adjacent to the underground car-park from which we had just emerged squinting into the bright afternoon sunshine.
Stripped to the waist and lager handed, Ronny and the boys were treating their audience, an even mix of Monegasgue nationals and heavily armed riot police, to West London’s own version of the ‘Last night of the prom’s’.
‘I thought you said there was a ban on alcohol son?’ I said to Ugly John, as we pushed our way politely through the crowds, following Jogger who was striding resolutely ahead of us.
‘That’s what my mate said,’ replied Ugly John frowning. ‘It don’t look like it though does it eh son,’ he continued, rubbing his hands and licking his lips in thirsty anticipation.
‘Where are you taking us?’ said Baby Gap Brian, as we caught up with Jog-On who had led us out of the precinct and down a narrow road along which was being driven an assortment of expensive, exotic looking Italian automobiles. ‘The Condamine,’ replied Jog-On knowledgeably. ‘It’s the harbour. Worth seeing cos they’ll be preparing the area for the Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix which is next month.’
I’m not a big fan of F1, but I suppose down the years I’ve watched the Monaco GP enough times on TV to allow various parts of the legendary circuit to indelibly imprint themselves in my subconscious. The swimming pool, the pedestrian bridge bedecked with adverts for Gauloise cigarettes, the old fortified town of Monaco-Ville built high on the rock which looked down on the rest of the Principality, it all looked so familiar now.
I closed my eyes momentarily and imagined the tyre burning screeches and high pitched engine whines of the cars as they raced past, their drivers jockeying for pole position along the notoriously treacherous circuit knowing that victory in this the most glamorous of all F1 events would guarantee them lasting fame, untold wealth and the amorous advances of scores of impossibly beautiful women that were drawn to the annual event.
The imaginary sound of F1 was replaced by the very real sound of the sirens belonging to several police vehicles that sped past us.
‘Fuck me,’ said Ossie, putting his fingers in his ears, ‘that’s loud enough to make anyone think war has just broken out,’ he continued, as we walked along the red asphalt area adjacent to the marina which Jogger informed us was where the pits would be housed for the Grand Prix.
‘Maybe war has just broken out,’ said Baby Gap Brian, who had stopped walking and was now staring out across the harbour, shading his eyes from the sun and looking for all the world like an old seafarer … or was it Uncle Albert from Only Fools And Horses.
‘What’s the fucking point of coming all the way out here and having a row?’ said Ossie, as he pointed at a blue hulled yacht which dwarfed everything else in the harbour. ‘Look at the size of that thing,’ he continued, not waiting for a reply to his previous question, ‘I wonder if it’s Abramovich’s?’
***
As we began to walk up the winding path which led from the harbour, up the side of the rock and into Monaco-Ville, I thought about what Ossie had just said. He was right, what was the point? “You do it for the reputation of the club,” I remembered Del Goss saying years ago when we’d travelled up to Preston for a glamorous 2nd Division fixture.
Del had instructed everyone to unscrew and steal every single light-bulb from the carriages of the ‘football special’ we had travelled to the match on; when we alighted at Preston station our orders were to throw the light-bulbs on the floor at the feet of the horses on which police officers, who were to provide us with an escort to Deepdale, were mounted.
It was like a scene from a Wild West movie, horses and bodies everywhere. Chelsea ‘ran’ Preston that day and which ever way you looked at it the ‘reputation’ of the club had most definitely been enhanced. A couple of people got arrested, but that was all. In those days as kids, we dealt with the police by raising the middle finger of our right hands from a safe distance and then doing a runner.
If you were unfortunate enough to get arrested, you maintained the right to remain silence until the opportunity to do a runner presented itself again and then you ran.
If you ended up in the station, the worst punishment you would receive would be at the hands of an adult relative who would box your ears in gratitude for having been dragged away from an evening in front of the telly.
Today, reputations were not enhanced by going up against the police. Little in the way of provocation was needed in any country for the police to march in and crack the heads of those whom they believed to be the ringleaders of any type of civil disturbance … and believe me, they seem to really love this aspect of their work.
As we tramped slowly through lush green gardens coloured with a variety of plants whose names I had no idea of, but whose scents filled the air with a bouquet of tranquillity, I wondered if the police had tired of the nationalistic anthems of Ronny Cutlass et al and had exercised unreasonable force to silence them.
“The reputation of the club”, eh … and where would Del Goss be right now I wondered? Probably having a few gentle beers with his cronies in one of the ‘dry’ bars down in the Condamine, telling stories about the old days … about trips to places like Preston and Blackpool … about kids like me who were too young and too naive to know any better.
***
Once inside the walled town we walked across the grey cobble stoned square that edged Prince Rainier’s whitewashed palace and made our way over to some medieval ramparts that overlooked the western half of the Principality. The vantage point was superb and afforded us views of both Monte Carlo with its internationally famous Casino, and Fontvielle an area of 40 Hectares that had recently been reclaimed from the sea and was now home to, among other things, Stade Louis II home to the Principality’s only professional football team L’Association Sportive de Monaco FC.
From up here the stadium, which was opened in 1985, resembled a giant open air opera house. Its verdant pitch which was laid well above street level and set on top of a multi-purpose sports complex that apparently incorporated an Olympic sized swimming pool looked like an oversize roof garden. Three sides of the stadium were covered with the far end open and capped off by a row of arches which give it a Romanesque appearance.
‘60 million quids worth,’ quipped Jog-On, knowing that we were all marvelling at the stadium. ‘It took six years to build and can withstand earthquakes measuring up to 7.5 on the Richter scale,’ he continued eruditely, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose in the manner of an elderly professor. ‘Y’see the arches? They allow the sea breeze to ventilate the stadium during the summer when it gets really hot. That’s why they have so many world class athletics meetings here.’
‘Fuck me,’ I whispered in Ossie’s ear, ‘this geezer knows a lot about everything doesn’t he.’ Ossie nodded but said nothing as we waited for Jog-On to complete our informal education on matters related to AS Monaco FC.
‘That’s why the cabbie in Nice hated ‘em so much then!’ exclaimed Baby Gap Brian, after Jog-On had told us that the club, which was now bankrolled by the royal family, was able to attract the cream of managerial and footballing talent because income tax did not exist in Monaco.
The club had amassed seven French titles since it was founded in 1924 and its distinctive red and white shirts had been worn by household names such as Fabien Barthez, Emanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, David Trezeguet, Lilian Thuram, and Glenn Hoddle.
Both Arsene Wenger and Jean Tigana had enjoyed success as managers here before fortunes on the pitch waned and the club, without the lucre provided by competing in Europe and unable to survive on the income generated by average gates of 8,000, teetered on the brink of oblivion as it flirted with bankruptcy.
Royal heir apparent, and ever present supporter, Prince Albert stepped in at the head of a consortium of local businessmen and AS Monaco FC, who had been relegated briefly to the Second Division for exceeding the French FA’s limit on debt, were back in business with ex Chelsea midfielder Didier Deschamps, who had recently taken over as coach, remaining at the helm of an exciting young side.
Jog-On also told us that the clubs shirt sponsors, a financial group called Fedcominvest, had initially offered to pay off the Club’s debts but the deal had been vetoed by the royal family who were concerned about some of the personnel involved in the Russian based company’s business dealings.
‘Bleedin Russian rouble billionaires they get fucking everywhere,’ said Baby
Gap Brian, tutting and shaking his head as we walked back across the square towards a bar called La Pampa Glaciers, where we’d agreed to meet Young Dave and the others.
‘Just as well,’ I said, relishing the prospect of getting my hands on another ice cold beer, ‘otherwise the way things were going we’d have been worrying about the cost of a return ticket to Plymouth next season rather than Prague.
***
The waiter placed a large bowl of chips on the table in front of Big Chris and pointed at his watch. ‘At seex thirtay vee are clo zed … no more bier, vee also vant to go to ze game.
‘All right mate, mangetout … mangetout,’ said Big Chris, grabbing a handful of chips. ‘You’d better bring us un autre dix bier’s then my son,’ he continued, stuffing the chips into his mouth and holding up both hands to give further clarification of how many beers were required.
The waiter nodded and forced a false smile. To him we were all the same. We were no different to Ronny Cutlass and his cohorts shouting the odds down in the precinct. As far as he was concerned he was witnessing at first hand the specifically British culture of binge drinking. However, even though the concept of drinking to excess baffled him, he was still more than happy to relieve us of our Euros provided we continued to behave in a relatively sober manner.
‘Blimey Big Chris I’m impressed,’ said Chicken Plucker, reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his Marlboro’s. ‘You couldn’t ask him where the toilet is could you? … I’m bursting.’
‘Oi garçon … son. Ou ‘est le khazi mate ?’ asked Big Chris, deliberately acting the oaf and keeping us all entertained into the bargain.
‘Khazi … vot ees zis khazi? Ees eet a how you say … a tooreest attraction? I don’t know zis khazi.’ The waiter shook his head and looked around the table hoping that someone would enlighten him.
‘Toilet mate … I need the toilet,’ said Chicken Plucker, standing up and patting down his pockets in order to determine where he’d put his cigarette lighter.
‘Ahh ze toilette,’ said the waiter, raising the index finger of his right hand. ‘Seet down von moment yes … I will get you ze coin for ze door … ees just around ze corner yes.’
The waiter pointed down the side street onto which La Pampa Glaciers backed and then scurried back into the bar whilst a relieved looking Chicken Plucker sat back down in his chair and finally lit up his cigarette. This was Chicken Plucker’s first away trip this season. He used to be a permanent fixture on the Chelsea scene, but now work commitments prevented him from getting to as many games as he’d like to get to.
According to Young Dave, Chicken Plucker was somewhat of a haute cuisine celebrity these days. His legendary Plucker Sauce, a piccante accompaniment for braised leg of pork, had been championed on TV by Gary Rhodes and was allegedly soon to be made available in packet form on the shelves of the nations supermarkets.
Chicken Plucker, christened Andrew by his parents, had held down a wide variety of jobs before talking his way into the job of saucier at Young Dave’s restaurant. He’d washed dishes at the Ritz, been a Red Coat at Butlins and as a five year old been the cute little kid in the mild green Fairy Liquid adverts.
The monicker Chicken Plucker had been bestowed on him by Young Dave, in whom he’d confided that the worst job he’d ever had was plucking chickens on his Auntie May’s farm one school summer holiday. Young Dave didn’t deal in Christian names, they were for normal people. All his friends had nicknames, most of which he’d come up with himself, and Andrew was to be no different.
***
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Young Dave, tossing his mobile phone onto the table and picking up his beer glass. ‘That was Johan the woodcutter … he’ll be up here with three tickets in five minutes … he wants a ton fifty for ‘em.’
‘Who the fuck is Johan the woodcutter?’ said Ugly John, looking at his watch. ‘There’s only an hour and ten to kick off,’ he continued, smoothing his hands across his temples.
 ‘Fuck knows,’ I said, ‘but I bet he used to work for Young Dave.’
 ‘He’s a bloke that used to work for me …,’ replied Young Dave, in answer to Ugly John’s question.
‘Don’t tell me he used to be a lumberjack and his names Johan,’ interrupted Big Chris.
‘Yeah … how d’ya guess that?’
‘Well … er you call him Johan the woodcutter.’
‘That does it,’ I said, scraping my chair back along the floor and standing up. ‘I’m goin for a top ten hit … this khazi must be pretty good, Plucker, Baby Gap and Lemon still aint come back yet.’
I walked into the bar to get one of the ‘special’ tokens required to gain access to the toilet. As the waiter handed me the token I glanced out of the window and saw Young Dave cuff Big Chris across the top of the head. He did it in the way a proud father would when quelling an outbreak of insubordination and insolence amongst his youngest children … and it made me smile.
***
‘Jeeeesus Christ!’ I exclaimed, as I pushed open the toilet door and walked into a small recessed alcove in which Baby Gap Brian, Lemon and Chicken Plucker were bent up double and laughing so hard they were crying. ‘What the fucks going on here then?’
‘It’s the … ha … ha … it’s the kha … ha ha khazi,’ shrieked Bay Gap Brian, pointing at the door and trying to regain his composure.
‘What about it?’ I said, putting the token in the door lock mechanism and turning the handle.
‘Ha … ha, it’s a special khazi mate … you’ll see.’ Baby Gap stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes and pushed Lemon and Chicken Plucker, who were both still laughing uncontrollably, out through the main door and into the street.
I opened the door with some trepidation thinking that perhaps the lads had sabotaged the toilet in some way but everything seemed normal, apart from the fact that there was a lot of water on the grey flagstone floor. I sniffed the air and grimaced as the pungent fumes of the chemicals used to disinfect the toilet irritated my nostrils.
‘Just like any other khazi,’ I thought to myself, as I dropped the kids off at the pool and watched a large Trapdoor spider make its way slowly across the floor towards my foot. ‘Maybe that was it … the spiders eh … nah … what’s funny about that?’
I looked up at the ceiling, at the walls and at the cistern behind me … nothing. Unless I was about to be devoured by some monster that lived in the toilet pan, and was currently hiding behind the u-bend, there was nothing to be suspicious about other than the fact that I could still hear Baby Gap Brian and Lemon giggling outside in the street. I finished off my business, sorted myself out and pressed the chrome lever on the side of the toilet which I assumed would activate the flush mechanism. Wrong! Well sort of. Travelling around the world has
taught me a few things. One of these being that you should always expect the unexpected when answering the call of nature.
The thing was though that you wouldn’t necessarily expect to have to be on your guard when using a public lavatory located across the square from the Prince’s Palace in one of the richest places on God’s earth. Fair enough elsewhere. In India I’d often found myself nervously squatting over a hole in the ground, my modesty concealed by a couple of sheets of rusty corrugated iron, having to keep my eyes peeled for the hands of thieving dacoites, scorpions and rats the size of a rugby balls … to say nothing of the snakes.
‘Jeeesus Christ … What the f f f …’ As I depressed the chrome lever the toilet thankfully flushed, but as it did so the seat began to revolve and water began to bubble up over the rim of the stainless steel pan cascading over the lip and onto the floor.
I pushed the lever again in the hope that this would switch off this novel and futuristic self cleansing mechanism but this only served to make matters worse. The toilet seats sedate revolutions began to gather momentum spraying the water out in a wider arc which encompassed my jeans clad legs. 
‘You wankers ha ha … oops,’ I shouted, laughing and then checking myself as I opened the toilet door expecting to see my friends but instead being greeted by the sight of a massively overweight woman dressed in black leggings and a loose fitting T-shirt across the front of which was emblazoned the slogan Jesus Saves.
‘Hey sir, you finished with the John now?’ drawled the woman, in what sounded like a Jerry Hall style Texan accent.
I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the toilet had once again returned to its static state.‘Yes m’am,’ I replied mimicking her intonation.
‘Praise the Lord,’ she said, breaking wind loudly as she pushed past me.
‘He won’t help you love,’ I muttered, as I stepped out into the street to be greeted by the still laughing Baby Gap Brian.
Baby Gap was all for hanging around to see if the fat American woman’s faith in God would save her from the terrible fate that lay in wait for her in the toilet but Young Dave was shouting after us and beckoning us to return to the bar as his friend Johan had just arrived in some style astride a pearly white heavily chromed Harley Davidson motorcycle.
‘He looks like that bloke Ponce off the old TV series about the Californian highway patrol men … er CHIPS … yeah that was it,’ observed Roger Socks.
‘You mean Ponch,’ said Lemon.
‘Nah Ponce is right … he looks like one of the faggots off the Village People, look at him,’ said Big Chris, as we watched Johan and Young Dave engage in an animated discussion which concluded with three match tickets being exchanged for 450 Euros.
‘Monaco veel fuck your Cockernee asses tonight,’ said Johan, as he pocketed the money, mounted the Harley and gunned its engine.
‘Nothings gonna fuck my fat arse tonight,’ chortled Big Chris, as we watched Johan roar away across the square, the revving engine all but drowning out the shrill female screams that could be heard coming from the general direction of bar La Pampa Glaciers soon to be world famous toilet.
***
‘Champions League … we’re havin a laugh … Champions League … we’re havin a laugh.
Young Dave and I were stood on yellow plastic bucket seats along with the 1400 other Chelsea supporters hemmed into Sector H of Monaco’s Stade Louis II. The stadium, which had looked impressive as we’d surveyed it from the giddy heights of Monaco-Ville’s ramparts, felt distinctly odd. It was full and yet there were less than 18,000 spectators in attendance for this evenings fixture.
Artificial, that was the adjective I was looking for. If Milton Keynes were a football stadium it would be Stade Louis II. To me the evident dislocation between investment and architecture seemed chasmic. In the past I have been known to indulge in passionate expletive ridden monologues focussed on the shortcomings of some of the grounds I’ve set foot in however here, in this ‘state of the art’ complex built to cater for a country whose population numbered a mere 30,000, words failed me.
If the stadium was artificial then the pre-match atmosphere generated by the home supporters could at best have been described as synthetic. The red and white banners of the static Monaco ‘ultras’ gathered in the flat fronted stand behind the goal opposite us hung limply in the lifeless but balmy evening air.
It was only when the players took to the field of play that Monaco’s supporters animated themselves, getting behind their team by rapping above their heads inflatable plastic red and white tubes which made a grating noise similar to the sound a ratchet makes.
‘In your Monaco slums … in your Monaco slums … you root in the dustbins for something to eat … you find a dead lobster, you think it’s a treat … in your Monaco slums.’
Our chant was not only ironically entertaining but served to drown out the irritating noise being made by the Monaco supporters. Looking around the stadium there were pockets of blue dotted sporadically across the red and white canvass. In the sector adjacent to ours there was a group of about 100 Chelsea fans un-segregated from the home support but the police, who were conducting security operations in front of us in an admirably low key fashion, seemed relatively unconcerned.
Geordie Jase and Lemon had found their way into our pen and as the seating was unreserved had managed to clamber across to where Young Dave and I were stood which was directly under the large electronic scoreboard behind the goal.

Chicken Plucker, prompted by a text message, waved to us from the bottom corner of the stand to our left which was comprised mainly of media and hospitality boxes. Ugly John rang me to say that he and Jogger were safely ensconced in the far end with the Monaco ‘ultras’. Big Chris and Roger Socks were apparently somewhere in the stand to our right but at that moment, as kickoff approached, I had no idea where Baby Gap Brian and Ossie had secured their vantage point.  
‘Ranieri’s blue and white army … Ranieri’s blue and white army.’
***
‘Marco Ambrosio … Marco Ambrosio.’
The stand in keeper turned to acknowledge our chant and was applauded loudly. Tonight he was playing behind the defensive quartet of Melchiot, Desailly the captain, Terry and Bridge. In midfield were Parker, Lampard and the man who seemed to save his best Chelsea performances for this competition Claude Makalele.
‘Super, super Frank … super, super Frank … super, super Frank … super Frankie Lampard.’
As we chanted Lampard’s name, Young Dave received a text from Chicken Plucker saying that he was sat next to Frank Lampard senior and I finally spotted Ossie and Baby Gap Brian away to our right in the midst of a group of plastic baton waving Monaco fans.
Gronkjaer, who’d made such an impression when he’d come on against Arsenal in the 2nd Leg at Highbury, started the game along with the twin striking partnership of Crespo and Gudjohnsen. Ranieri’s tinkering options on the substitutes bench comprised of Sullivan, Huth, Geremi, Joe Cole, Mutu, Hasselbaink and surprisingly Juan Sebastian Veron who had been plagued by injury and concerns over his fitness for much of the season.
As the game kicked off the Monaco supporters finally found their voices and got behind their team who responded by immediately testing the Chelsea defence, with both Evra and Rothen running at Melchiot and Parker down the left hand side.
‘He looks sharp that Giuly … frighteningly quick,’ said Young Dave, as we craned our necks to see the action which was mainly taking place in Chelsea’s half of the pitch.
‘Morientes worries me … oooh … shit … see what I mean,’ I replied, burying my head in my hands as Giuly crossed to the talented Spaniard whose shot from the edge of the box was blocked by Desailly.
‘Come on Chelsea … Come on Chelsea … Come on Chelsea … OH SHIT!’
With barely quarter of an hour gone Monaco opened the scoring. Melchiot who was being given a torrid time by Rothen brought his tormentor to the ground with a scything tackle for which he was booked. In the manner of that most famous of all players to wear a number 25 shirt, Rothen clipped the free kick across the box, our flat footed defence failed to clear the ball and the unmarked Prso sent a looping header beyond Ambrosio into the back of the Chelsea net.
‘Bollocks!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s been coming aint it eh.’
‘Chelsea … Chelsea … Chelsea … Chelsea.’
Momentarily stunned by the goal, the first the team had conceded on foreign soil in this seasons competition, we were soon in good voice again and our support galvanised Chelsea who began to press forward with Makalele and Lampard starting to boss the midfield.
‘We are the famous … the famous Chelsea.’
Chelsea responded by stepping up another gear.
‘Go on Eidur … go on son,’ I shouted, as the Icelander latched onto a Scott Parker pass and then seemed to stumble over the ball. ‘Fuck it … no go on … Hernan … Yessss! … Goal … Fucking brilliant ha ha.’ Eidur Gudjohnsen had somehow managed to squeeze the ball across the goal mouth to Hernan Crespo who took one touch before side footing the ball into the net.
Crespo’s celebration of the goal was as good as any I had seen. He vaulted the pitchside advertising hoardings, sprinted across the running track and ran towards us with his arms flailing and lank hair trailing behind him. It reminded me of the way Joe Allon, a Shedite cult hero and one of many strikers who’d tried and failed to fill Kerry Dixon’s golden boots, had celebrated scoring his first goal for the club.
‘Hernan Crespo … Hernan Crespo … hello … hello Hernan Crespo.’
After a shaky start and the concession of an early goal, Chelsea were on level terms. Crespo had given us a priceless away goal and suddenly we were all in a party mood.
‘Are you watching … are you watching … are you watching Arsenal,’ we chanted, hoping that our voices could be heard by any Arse fans who might be watching back at home.
I could just about see Claudio Ranieri, I couldn’t see his face but I imagined he’d be smiling right now. You only got to see those close up emotional images on TV. The day after the Arsenal game I’d read in the paper how Ranieri had wept tears of joy on the Highbury pitch after Chelsea’s famous victory.
Amidst all the celebratory pandemonium in the Clock End at the final whistle in that game, I’d missed out on seeing that … but then where would I rather have been? Sat in front of the telly watching replays of the action from every angle whilst listening to old Mr Bojangles himself, Ron Atkinson, mixing his metaphors with Des Lynam, or right here in the thick of it, living and breathing every sparkling moment? No contest.
‘We love you Chelsea we do … we love you Chelsea we do …we love you Chelsea  we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.’
Chelsea began to play with more and more confidence. Crespo should have increased our advantage from a great Lampard cross but instead he volleyed the ball over the bar.
‘It’s in the bag this lads,’ said Lemon, as we applauded the players from the pitch at half time.
‘Let’s hope he keeps the same players on the pitch for the second half eh,’ said Geordie Jase, fingering the small enamel Chelsea lapel badge that he was sporting proudly on his jacket.
‘Yeah lets eh,’ said Young Dave, offering me a Silk Cut which I gratefully accepted. ‘Looks like your 3-1 forecasts out of the window son,’ he continued, winking at me as he passed the cigarette packet to Lemon.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ I replied, raising my eyebrows and turning my head to look up at the huge electronic scoreboard behind me.
‘If she don’t come … I’ll tickle her bum with a lump of celery … celery, celery.’
I laughed as I looked up and saw sticks of the green vegetable go sailing up into the night sky wondering what the Monegasques might make of this quaint Chelsea tradition. Soup, most probably.
***
‘You are having a fucking laugh aren’t you? What the fuck is Ranieri playing at?’ said Young Dave, scratching at his forehead as the Chelsea players emerged from the tunnel to our right with Veron on as a second half substitute for Jesper Gronkjaer.
‘Dunno son,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders. ‘Their number 4 did a good job of shutting Gronkjaer down … but Veron’s a different type of player.’
‘Yeah, he’s different all right,’ said Geordie Jase, ‘he’s fucking rubbish, that’s what he is man.’ 
 Whilst I thought Geordie Jase was being a bit hard on the Argentinean playmaker I was prepared to give Tinkerman the benefit of the doubt. The second half started in much the same way as the first half had, with Monaco, now attacking the goal in front us, pushing up and putting Chelsea’s defence under pressure. Twice they almost retook the lead; firstly when Ambrosio made a spectacular save from a header at a corner, and secondly when Desailly cleared a Morientes shot off the line with the keeper beaten.
‘Marcel … Marcel Desailly … Marcel … Marcel Desailly.’
‘Thank fuck for the Rock eh … he aint lost the magic,’ I said, slapping Young Dave across the back as our support heaved a huge collective sigh of relief when the ball was booted up-field. The respite was only temporary though and Monaco continued their stern examination of Chelsea’s defence.
‘Great tackle Makalele,’ said Lemon, as the tigerish midfielder effected a brilliant sliding tackle on Zikos to prevent him crossing what would have been a dangerous ball across the Chelsea five yard box.
‘Fuck me … that’s dodgy,’ I said, as Zikos stood up from the tackle and appeared to punch Makalele on the back of the neck.
‘He’s gonna go for that,’ said Young Dave, as we watched Makalele fall dramatically to the floor.
‘Off … Off … Off,’ we shouted, as the referee brandished the red card at Zikos and then the yellow at Makalele. The Monaco players and supporters were incensed at the decision. We just laughed and cheered.
‘I didn’t see it mate, did you?’ I asked the question to no-one in particular, but the general consensus was that Makalele had deliberately got Zikos sent off. ‘Oh well … fuck em,’ I said, clapping my hands together. ‘That’s it now, this should be a piece of piss.’
Chelsea went on the offensive and Deschamps substituted Monaco’s goalscorer Prso and made his team adopt a more cautious formation. ‘Go on Eidur … fuck I can’t see … shit, that looked close,’ I said, as Monaco’s keeper sprinted out of his goal to make a great save.
‘Eidur Gudjohnsen … Eidur Gudjohnsen … ooooh.’
The chanting of the strikers name broke off as he headed Veron’s corner fractionally over the bar.
‘Jimmy’s coming on, Claudio’s going for the win lads,’ said Young Dave, as we looked over to the Chelsea bench and saw Hasselbaink take off his tracksuit in readiness for action.
‘Who’s he taking off? I asked, trying to see the number on the fourth officials indicator board.
‘Looks like Scotty Parker dunnit,’ replied Lemon.
‘Yeah, he’s making his way over eh … you’re having a bleedin giraffe aren’t you!’ I exclaimed, as the fourth official indicated that it was in fact Mario Melchiot who was making way for Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink.
‘Oh Jimmy, Jimmy … Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink.’
‘He’s pushed the gamble button,’ said Young Dave, as we tried to make sense of Ranieri’s decision to move Scott Parker from midfield to right back which also meant switching Veron from the left to the right flank.
‘We’ve lost our shape,’ said Geordie Jase knowledgably. ‘Look, instead of stretching them wide and taking advantage of the fact their down to ten men we’re playing 4-3-3 … it’s fucking stupid.’
Geordie Jase was right, even though Hasselbaink had almost scored twice, Chelsea looked increasingly ragged. Giuly, Monaco’s captain, was using his electric pace to good effect and exposing Parker’s shortcomings as a full back and it was no surprise when Ranieri substituted Parker with Huth in an attempt to shore up the defence.
‘Fuck me someone stop him … get in there Marcel!’ yelled Young Dave, pointing at Giuly who’d skilfully held off the Chelsea captains challenge and passed the ball to Morientes who had run into a great position on the edge of our penalty area.‘For fucks sake … NO!’ Morientes hammered the ball into the back of the Chelsea net and sent the home support into raptures.
‘That’s fucking bollocks Claudio,’ roared Lemon, as we watched Ambrosio, who’d had absolutely no chance of making the save, pick the ball up and lash it angrily up field.
‘Just ten fucking minutes … against ten fucking men … wankers,’ said Young Dave, his voice ridden with angst.
‘Come on Chelsea … Come on Chelsea.’
There was still plenty of conviction in our chanting but unfortunately it wasn’t enough to raise the morale of the team and I sensed that Didier Deschamps knew this. He sent on Nonda for Giuly and seconds later Monaco had a 3-1 lead. Maybe Ambrosio could have done better when Nonda stabbed the ball past him, who knows.
I stared disbelievingly at the scoreboard; which ever way I looked at it … there was no getting away from the fact that Monaco had mugged us 3-1. At the final whistle I sat down in my seat and rubbed the palms of my hands backwards and forwards along my thighs and shook my head as I watched the players trek disconsolately down the tunnel.
Same old Chelsea, maddeningly unpredictable, we’d thrown it all away. Claudio Ranieri’s tactics, which two weeks earlier had seen off Arsenal and earned him column inches of praise from the voracious Fleet Street football hacks, had been unfathomable. If Peter Kenyon had been sharpening the axe again over the last couple of weeks then Roman Abramovich may well have seen enough this evening to be persuaded to deliver the final coup de grace himself.
Match result
L’Association Sportive de Monaco FC  3 ::  Chelsea FC 1
‘Roman Abramovich … Roman Abramovich.’
We were still waiting for the stewards to open the security gates to allow us to exit the stadium when Roman Abramovich, flanked by several burly looking minders, walked past our sector and made his way over to the players tunnel. He waved to us acknowledging our support but the haunted expression on his face was that of a man who’s pride had been wounded by the monstrous deficiency of his teams second half performance.
Five minutes after Mr Abramovich had made his way down the tunnel. Chelsea’s CEO, Peter Kenyon also walked past our sector but this time the chanting was less appreciative.
‘Kenyon, Kenyon … you’re a cunt, Kenyon … you’re a cunt.’
‘It’s gonna take something special for that geezer to win over the hearts and minds of the Chelsea faithful,’ said Young Dave, as we shuffled down the steps and made our way dejectedly out of the stadium.
‘Beckham?’ said Geordie Jase, kicking an empty coke can along the floor.
‘Beckham and Ronaldo,’ I replied, checking my mobile phone for text messages and wondering what Abramovich and Kenyon might be plotting next.
***
Several beers and a packet of cigarettes later I’d reached the ‘what’s the fucking point?’ moment of self pitying gloom. The journey back from Monaco to Nice had been uneventful and our conversation peppered with giveaway expletive riddled expressions highlighting our frustration at what we had witnessed.
Tactically Ranieri had thrown the baby out with the bathwater. So often criticised for being over cautious and playing to the Italian, ‘catenaccio’, defensive counter-attacking blueprint which had yielded a club record number of clean sheets and away victories, Tinkerman had speculated wildly on being able to return home from Monaco with a victory that would almost certainly have guaranteed Chelsea’s passage back to Gelsenkirchen.
‘You can’t just blame the gaffer,’ said Baby Gap Brian, pretending not to notice the palpable charms of waitress who was loitering at the far edge of our table.
‘Well you can … but the players have to shoulder some of the responsibility don’t they,’ sighed Ossie, the smile on his face which had been ever present since we’d entered Le Havane being replaced by a frown.
Ossie had a point. Chelsea’s capitulation had been spectacular. Whilst I expected Claudio Ranieri to admit liability for the defeat, I hoped that the players would share the burden of accountability.
‘2-0 … that’ll do it eh,’ continued Ossie, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair.
‘I reckon we’ll either win 5-0 or it will be a bore draw,’ offered Ugly John, leaning across the table and taking a closer interest in the discussion.
‘Agreed … yeah I can see that,’ said Baby Gap Brian, tapping his fingers on the table in time with the Latino music thudding from Le Havane’s impressive soundsystem.
I watched as girls ebbed and flowed from the bar area to the dance floor where they would dance the Salsa with frightening proficiency. The big rich sound had an infectious quality to it, and the rhythms were impossible to dislodge from the brain. Slowly but surely the depression began to lift.
‘It’s like dancing by numbers innit,’ I remarked, trying to follow the succession of steps that a Jennifer Lopez lookalike was trading with a small muscular albino man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ugly John.
The albino, sensing he was being watched, looked over in our direction and smiled as he weaved his hips and gave ‘J-Lo’ his best moves leaving me in no doubt that he found our bemused looks profoundly satisfying.
***
STINKERMAN, proclaimed the Daily Mail’s back-page headline, but I was
too exhausted to contemplate reading a blow by blow account of how Chelsea’s Champions League train had been derailed by the folly of Claudio Ranieri. I looked at the glazed expression on Ugly John’s face as he wrestled with the forces of sleep, trying to keep himself awake until our flight was called and I wondered if he felt the same way that I did.
I could handle the physical exhaustion and the hollow hangover headache, I could handle the taunts of the Arsenal supporters always quick off the mark when it came to revengeful text messages, and I could handle the glorious unpredictability so synonymous with Chelsea Football Club.
But right now I felt that I, and every other fan who’d paid out good money to see the game, had been cheated and I couldn’t handle that at all.
‘Maybe we we’re all a bit hasty giving Eriksson the cold shoulder,’ said Ugly John, as we made our way through the departure gate.
‘We do need Eriksson … we do need Eriksson,’ I sang, in a low voice.
‘Ha you fickle bastard ha ha,’ chortled Ugly John.
‘And you’re not?’ I replied, trying to stifle a yawn as we boarded the plane.
‘Not really, I always said Eriksson was the right man for the job.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It ain’t bollocks it’s the truth … well almost.’
‘Ranieri’s finished ain’t he … even if we turn the tie around at the Bridge.’
‘Even if we win the Champions League mate.’
‘Even if he finds life on Mars my son.’
  

















No comments:

Post a Comment