tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1878039709928110732024-03-12T22:25:07.285-07:00This Damnation - Mark Worrall"With its deep roots and deeper obsessions, this fine novel digs into notions of love and loss and longing in powerful fashion. Open 'This Damnation' and you won't be putting it down any time soon."
John King, author of 'The Football Factory' and 'Human Punk'.
Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-43058368199294284102018-12-01T02:55:00.000-08:002018-12-01T02:55:02.620-08:00Monaco v Chelsea - the madness of King Claudio the Tinkerman
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: medium;">Extract from <i>Over Land and Sea a Chelsea Football Odyssey</i> </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: medium;">by Mark Worrall </span><span style="color: blue; font-size: medium; text-indent: 0.25in;">first edition published in 2004 by </span><span style="color: blue; font-size: small; text-decoration-line: none; text-indent: 0.25in;"><a href="http://gate17.co.uk/" style="text-decoration-line: none; text-indent: 0.25in;">Gate 17</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wGvvwc66iNaZKZNIo9HGRvoJGws1_h2f5gCAmZEixVosdbcqC2kF5ZuHyF3Cv_V7eGPKL6wHHBaW1xZqz2JBsJez1y4K4YagZG3P7op7yyjVwzOGKeSHMst5j2WhxBkYXhyphenhyphen5rcco-Aw/s1600/olas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wGvvwc66iNaZKZNIo9HGRvoJGws1_h2f5gCAmZEixVosdbcqC2kF5ZuHyF3Cv_V7eGPKL6wHHBaW1xZqz2JBsJez1y4K4YagZG3P7op7yyjVwzOGKeSHMst5j2WhxBkYXhyphenhyphen5rcco-Aw/s320/olas.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">AS MONACO FC<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">V</span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">CHELSEA</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">UEFA Champions League<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">Semi-final First Leg<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">Stade Louis II<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Monaco<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tuesday April 20<sup>th</sup> 2004</b><span style="text-indent: 22.7pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Seriously … is that what the cab driver said?’ I asked,
raising my eyebrows to indicate my genuine surprise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>south of France like the back
of his hand and more importantly he’d also agreed to do all the driving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice where Ugly John had
booked our accommodation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Oi Marco, over here son … oi lads come on.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vieille ville </i>(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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">Well since you’ve mentioned it,’ said Ugly John, pursing his
lips and blowing a kiss after the girl on the bicycle, ‘whaddya reckon?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Kipling!’ said Ossie, stirring us from the daydreaming we
had succumbed to following lunch and several sunshine beers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Where!’ said Baby Gap Brian, jolting forward in his chair
as if he’d just been poked with an electric cattle prod.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCZNBNz7xiWMC9euHJrkZX15BwBt-vhYS7MEvYUHaAOFtxPSzDlvh-OBXN7pgamRfVO0ICudCdROfCjZnlY4Y2emLAl_3Sg1PAjo3UQ8LYBW3LYhmheN6nPLkmWEokUbJIaw-5HdcXjU/s1600/Untitled1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="415" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCZNBNz7xiWMC9euHJrkZX15BwBt-vhYS7MEvYUHaAOFtxPSzDlvh-OBXN7pgamRfVO0ICudCdROfCjZnlY4Y2emLAl_3Sg1PAjo3UQ8LYBW3LYhmheN6nPLkmWEokUbJIaw-5HdcXjU/s400/Untitled1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">GATE 17 MONACO<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘His poetry inspires Claudio,’ replied Ossie, sitting
forward in his chair knowing that he now had our full and undivided attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Good story,’ I said, looking at the time on my watch. ‘And
your prediction Ossie for tonight is?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Rule Britannia …
Britannia rules the waves … Britons never, never, never shall </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">be slaves …’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>‘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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">The imaginary sound of F1 was replaced by the very real
sound of the sirens belonging to several police vehicles that sped past us.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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?’<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 2<sup>nd</sup> Division fixture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Bleedin Russian rouble billionaires they get fucking
everywhere,’ said Baby <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 <span lang="PL" style="mso-ansi-language: PL;">vant to go to
ze game.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Oi garçon … son. Ou ‘est le khazi mate ?’ asked Big
Chris, deliberately acting the oaf and keeping us all entertained into the
bargain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Fuck knows,’ I said,
‘but I bet he used to work for Young Dave.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘He’s a bloke that
used to work for me …,’ replied Young Dave, in answer to Ugly John’s question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Don’t tell me he used to be a lumberjack and his names
Johan,’ interrupted Big Chris.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Yeah … how d’ya guess that?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Well … er you call him Johan the woodcutter.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘What about it?’ I said, putting the token in the door lock
mechanism and turning the handle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;">‘Ha … ha, it’s a
special khazi mate … you’ll see.’ </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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 <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">taught me a few things. One of these being that you should
always expect the unexpected when answering the call of nature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus Saves.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Hey sir, you finished with the John now?’ drawled the
woman, in what sounded like a Jerry Hall style Texan accent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Praise the Lord,’ she said, breaking wind loudly as she
pushed past me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘You mean Ponch,’ said Lemon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Monaco veel fuck your Cockernee asses tonight,’ said Johan,
as he pocketed the money, mounted the Harley and gunned its engine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">‘Champions League …
we’re havin a laugh … Champions League … we’re havin a laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘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.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Ranieri’s blue and
white army … Ranieri’s blue and white army.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="PT-BR" style="mso-ansi-language: PT-BR;"><span style="color: blue;">‘Marco Ambrosio … Marco Ambrosio.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Super, super Frank …
super, super Frank … super, super Frank … super Frankie Lampard.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">Gronkjaer, who’d made such an impression when he’d come on
against Arsenal in the 2<sup>nd</sup> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Come on Chelsea …
Come on Chelsea … Come on Chelsea … OH SHIT!’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Bollocks!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s been coming aint
it eh.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Chelsea … Chelsea …
Chelsea … Chelsea.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘We are the famous …
the famous Chelsea.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">Chelsea responded by stepping up another gear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;">‘Hernan Crespo … Hernan Crespo … hello … hello
Hernan Crespo.’</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Are you watching …
are you watching … are you watching Arsenal,’ </i>we chanted, hoping that our
voices could be heard by any Arse fans who might be watching back at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘We love you Chelsea
we do … we love you Chelsea we do …we love you Chelsea<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘It’s in the bag this lads,’ said Lemon, as we applauded the
players from the pitch at half time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Thank fuck for that,’ I replied, raising my eyebrows and
turning my head to look up at the huge electronic scoreboard behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘If she don’t come …
I’ll tickle her bum with a lump of celery … celery, celery.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Yeah, he’s different all right,’ said Geordie Jase, ‘he’s
fucking rubbish, that’s what he is man.’</span><span style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 22.7pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="color: blue;">‘Marcel … Marcel Desailly … Marcel … Marcel
Desailly.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘He’s gonna go for that,’ said Young Dave, as we watched
Makalele fall dramatically to the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Off … Off … Off,’</i>
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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Eidur Gudjohnsen …
Eidur Gudjohnsen … ooooh.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">The chanting of the strikers name broke off as he headed
Veron’s corner fractionally over the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Who’s he taking off? I asked, trying to see the number on
the fourth officials indicator board.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Looks like Scotty Parker dunnit,’ replied Lemon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Oh Jimmy, Jimmy …
Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Just ten fucking minutes … against ten fucking men …
wankers,’ said Young Dave, his voice ridden with angst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Come on Chelsea …
Come on Chelsea.’</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;"><span style="color: blue;">Match result<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">L’Association
Sportive de Monaco FC<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3 ::<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chelsea FC 1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="color: blue;">‘Roman Abramovich … Roman Abramovich.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">Five minutes after Mr Abramovich had made his way down the
tunnel. Chelsea’s CEO, Peter Kenyon also walked past our sector<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>but this time the chanting was less
appreciative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="color: blue;">‘Kenyon, Kenyon … you’re a cunt, Kenyon … you’re a
cunt.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Beckham?’ said Geordie Jase, kicking an empty coke can
along the floor.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Beckham and Ronaldo,’ I replied, checking my mobile phone
for text messages and wondering what Abramovich and Kenyon might be plotting
next.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘2-0 … that’ll do it eh,’ continued Ossie, folding his arms
and sitting back in his chair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">STINKERMAN,
proclaimed the Daily Mail’s back-page headline, but I was <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘We do need Eriksson …
we do need Eriksson,’</i> I sang, in a low voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Ha you fickle bastard ha ha,’ chortled Ugly John.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘And you’re not?’ I replied, trying to stifle a yawn as we
boarded the plane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Not really, I always said Eriksson was the right man for
the job.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Bollocks!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘It ain’t bollocks it’s the truth … well almost.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Ranieri’s finished ain’t he … even if we turn the tie
around at the Bridge.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Even if we win the Champions League mate.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;">‘Even if he finds life on Mars my son.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-73764554707960140102018-06-20T01:49:00.004-07:002018-06-20T01:49:50.871-07:00Gianfranco Zola - April 2004
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: large;">Extract from <i>Over Land and Sea a Chelsea Football Odyssey</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">by Mark Worrall </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.25in;">first edition published in 2004 by </span><a href="http://gate17.co.uk/" style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.25in;">Gate 17</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XL-vyHul02IX0vMmAr5k1ReM_J0V7B1vqwJO-_02g-pUV_QyzUFJOL6ezyICmu6XIFD0e96kS5Vwe0jBdrTbOmV-6K6RyY-MARQlhZPHC_CrBqGCbiVBFpm0jM5jsRWv_kaoKQQPmk8/s1600/olas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XL-vyHul02IX0vMmAr5k1ReM_J0V7B1vqwJO-_02g-pUV_QyzUFJOL6ezyICmu6XIFD0e96kS5Vwe0jBdrTbOmV-6K6RyY-MARQlhZPHC_CrBqGCbiVBFpm0jM5jsRWv_kaoKQQPmk8/s200/olas.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">GIANFRANCO ZOLA</span> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue;">Cagliari FC vs Como FC<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue;">Serie B Italia<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue;">Stadio Sant’ Elia<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sardinia<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Italy<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"><span style="color: blue;">Saturday 3rd April 2004</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Put a brandy in that will you love,’ said
Sir Larry, pointing at the beer glass on the table in front of him and pushing
his fingers comb-like through his greying mane of black hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Is that a Miriam son?’ he continued,
adjusting his spectacles so he could focus his eyes more intently on the
sylphlike figure of the olive skinned, waitress who was endeavouring to take
our order as we sat outside the </span><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Antico Caffe in Cagliari’s Piazza Costituzione.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Well it looks like a Miriam mate,’ I
replied, rubbing at the stubble on my chin, ‘but I reckon that underneath that
tight black skirt, partially concealed by the flimsiest of G strings, you’ll
find a regular black box as opposed to the meat and two veg that Miriam was
hiding from her suitors.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Right … right, but she’d definitely get it
yeah,’ replied Sir Larry, sparking up a Marlboro and smiling as he watched the
waitress pour the brandy he’d just ordered into his beer glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Grazie love … this ought to do it … cheers
lads … happy birthday Ugly John.’ Sir Larry raised his beer glass, as we did
ours, and drained the contents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The occasion was Ugly John’s 40<sup>th</sup>
birthday. Before Christmas we’d made a plan to celebrate it in style by making
a pilgrimage to Sardinia … a trip that hopefully would include watching
Gianfranco Zola playing for his hometown club Cagliari against Como in the
Italian Serie B, the equivalent of England’s Championship … and here
we were!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I looked around the table; it was a good
turn out, even if the slightly botched travel arrangements had meant that a
couple of lads had dropped out at the last minute. Originally we’d all been
booked on a return flight from Luton to Cagliari but then the carrier,
Volareweb, decided at the last minute to cancel the return flight back to
London leaving us slightly snookered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ugly John eventually manage to sort things
out so that we still flew from Luton out to Cagliari with Volareweb but
inconveniently the return leg of the journey would involve driving to the north
of the island and taking a Ryanair flight from Alghero back to my favourite
airport in the whole wide world, Stanstead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We hadn’t planned on hiring a couple of
cars, but in the end it turned out to be a blessing in disguise as our hotel
was a fair distance from town and the weather could at best be described as
variable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Right now though, the sun was so intense I
could feel my bald pate starting to protest at the lack of protection I’d
afforded it. Fuck it, I thought to myself, we’re only here for a couple of days
… if I burn, I burn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ossie didn’t look too concerned about the
potentially harmful effects of the midday Sardinian sun either, stretching
himself out along the length of his chair and rolling up his jeans to his
knees. All he needed now was a knotted hankie on his head and he’d complete the
perfect image of the English tourist abroad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Young Dave’s leathery skin had long since
lost its elasticity and was probably impervious to the suns injurious ultra
violet rays. He could bask lizard-like for hours, sitting in silence as he was
now, studying Ugly John’s Lonely Planet guide to Sardinia, speaking only to
confirm what he wanted to drink next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sir Larry was Sir Larry. Extremes of
temperature didn’t faze him, quite simply he was a human phenomenon whose
alcohol soaked body was resistant to a wide number of ailments ranging from the
common cold to Malaria. Recently he hadn’t been so lucky with the Poison Ivy
but he’d figured an extra brandy with his beer would soon clear that up
enabling him to wax his dolphin with any Miriam that took his fancy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ugly John was sat there next to Sir Larry
with his eyes closed and a broad grin on his upturned face. Ossie had cruelly
suggested that it was Ugly’s 50<sup>th</sup> birthday not his 40<sup>th</sup>,
but from where I was sitting he seemed to be wearing reasonably well. At least
he still had a full head of hair, which was still the same dirty blonde colour
as it had been when I first met him twenty odd years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ugly John’s locks had been the topic of a
lengthy discussion in the bar at Luton airport the previous evening. It had a
synthetic nylon-like quality to it which reminded me of the Action Man dolls of
my childhood. ‘Suedehead!’ Ossie had proclaimed, garnering support for a new
nickname for Ugly John. But Ugly John, ‘Brutto Gianni’ as I’d introduced him to
a couple of Miriam’s we’d chatted to over breakfast this morning, was Ugly John
in the same way that Sir Larry was Sir Larry although I had to admit that the
nickname Suedehead was a pretty good one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Augmenting our impressive line-up of middle
aged, itinerant thrill seekers were a couple of battle scarred veterans whose
friendship I’d nurtured during the early halcyon days of the rave scene.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Neither Sergeant Barnes or El Jocko had a
great deal of affinity with Chelsea FC, but they did share with us a genuine
love of the game and of course the birthday boy, Ugly John.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sergeant Barnes was razor thin and absurdly
youthful in both his appearance and outlook on life. The youthful looks he
attributed to a spartan lifestyle that was dominated by a love of cycling and
the fitness regime that went with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Barnes was my conscience, pulling me back
time and again from the precipice when my recreational drug abuse threatened to
become something more habitual. Always sharply dressed, he had the gait to
accompany the militaristic moniker by which he was known.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This had been the first time that Ossie and
Young Dave had met Sergeant Barnes and they had both automatically thought that
he was known as Sergeant Barnes because his surname was Barnes and he’d
achieved the rank of sergeant during the course of an army career.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They were right about the surname, but
little else. Young Dave’s whimsical notion that Barnes was a war hero who’s
face had been scarred during active service in the Falkland’s or the Gulf was
way off track.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sergeant Barnes was the Tom Berenger
character in the film Platoon. At the time Barnes and Berenger bore an uncanny
resemblance to each other, well according to my ex wife anyway … the same ex
wife that thought my ‘Uncle’ Robert looked like Mel Gibson. It was all easy …
the surname of the character in the film and our mate were the same and so
plain old Jonathan Barnes became known as Sergeant Barnes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With the passage of time Barnes’ personality
had become aligned to the character he was named after. Our Sergeant became
prone to belligerent outbursts, provoked more often than not by the sight of a
lardy girl wearing ill fitting clothes that had been purchased from Top Shop
rather than the shabby behaviour of the fellow members of his ‘platoon’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A recent mishap hadn’t helped his
temperament; the scars Sergeant Barnes bore on his face were not old shrapnel
wounds but the legacy of a life threatening road accident that had also seen
him break his back in two places and dislocate his left shoulder. The main
thing was he was alive, most definitely kicking, and here with us today to
celebrate Ugly John’s landmark birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If the scythe of the Grim Reaper had missed
Sergeant Barnes by the narrowest of margins then it had missed El Jocko by a
cats whisker. El Jocko should have been rechristened Lazarus, for his was the
greatest comeback of all. Less than a year ago, whilst on a climbing holiday in
South Africa, he’d fallen fifty metres down a sheer cliff face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It had taken twelve hours for the rescue
team to reach him and a further twelve hours to get him down off the mountain.
His injuries were so grave that it was thought for some time he might never
walk again. It was a full month after the fall before the neurological unit at
the Cape Town hospital El Jocko found himself in, pronounced him well enough to
be flown to a hospital in Paris the city he’d called home for the past decade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The dreadful accident had taken its toll on
El Jocko. His right leg and lower back were held together by a Meccanoesque
assemblage of metal pins, screws and plates and he now walked with a pronounced
limp and a slight stoop. His once powerful frame had been decimated by muscle
wastage resulting from the lengthy period of inactivity which El Jocko, a
hugely talented all-round sportsman, had found maddening to endure … but he was
back, and it was great to have the pleasure of his company again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If my memory served me well enough I’d only
ever been to three football matches with El Jocko and it had rained heavily on
each occasion. The first time I’d taken him down to the Bridge, we’d got soaked
to the skin watching a one sided 5-0 demolition of Sheffield Wednesday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The second time El Jocko had invited a few
of us to his home town city of Edinburgh where we had watched the team he’d
followed as a callow Scottish youth, Heart of Midlothian, take on the mighty
Bayern Munich who’d fielded a side which included a very young future defensive
stalwart of the successful Chelsea cup side of the late nineties, Erland Johnsen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t remember much about that game, a
UEFA Cup tie, but I do recall it pissing down with rain and El Jocko taking us
to a drinker called the Athletic Arms where he introduced us to the delights of
a potent Scottish brew called Eighty Shillings and the local delicacy of Mars
Bars deep fried in batter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The final time I’d attended a match with El
Jocko oddly enough was here in Italy, Genoa to be precise … Italia 90. Since El
Jocko had been sporting enough to come and watch England play on more than one occasion,
it was only fair that we reciprocated. Unfortunately for El Jocko the game we
went to see was Scotland’s embarrassing defeat at the hands of the football
super power that is … Costa Rica, and it had tipped it down then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Piazza Costituzione is located at the top
of a gentle hill that slopes down to the sea. I sat there nursing my beer and
watching the rays of blazing sunshine streaking through the branches of the
poplar trees lining the uneven flagstone road which led down to the sprawling
port of Cagliari.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As the afternoon shadows cast by the trees
lengthened, I couldn’t help but notice the dark, brooding clouds out to sea
which seemed to be creeping slowly inland bringing with them a murky
malevolence which El Jocko wryly commented on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Looks like we might have a bit of rain to
the west later,’ he drawled slowly, sounding like a TV weatherman, his lilting
Scottish accent adding a bizarre level of credence to the forecast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">El Jocko looked at Sir Larry and then at
the waitress who was hovering nearby before leaning over and whispering in my
ear, ‘Will yae order me a stiff brandy Marco, get her tae pour it in ma beer
like Sir Larry has it and then for the love of Jesus Christ tell me who the
feck this Miriam is yae all keep talking aboot.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Despite the ominous looking clouds which
blackened the horizon, the sky above our heads remained holiday brochure blue.
As we walked down the hill to the port area it became obvious to me that the
wealth which was so clearly flaunted on mainland Italy, and which had been
clearly visible in the elegant and stylish city of Rome, seemed to be missing
from Cagliari.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sardinia may be rich in history and culture
but Cagliari as a city is an agglomeration of bland apartment blocks, modern
office buildings, medieval walls, baroque churches and a centre that is
characterised by a maze of narrow cobbled streets and a castle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">An article I’d read recently about Sardinia
described it as being the ‘land of magic full of designer views.’ Everywhere I
looked though all I could see was graffiti. It wasn’t even in the artistic
style of the hip hop urban ‘tag’ graffiti that we are so used to seeing back in
London, this was just plain old vulgar, political sloganeering. Nothing was
sacred, every wall, statue and monument that we passed was sprayed up; the only
tagging in evidence here was the ubiquitous and strange stencilled image of a
lady’s red halter neck brassiere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We walked past a group of North African men
were stood outside the upmarket department store La Rinascente on Via Roma
selling the usual range of fake designer goods.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Y’know Sardinia is nearer to Africa than
Italy,’ said Young Dave, giving us the benefit of some more of the knowledge
he’d absorbed from Ugly John’s Lonely Planet guide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Look at the Miriam’s in there,’ said
Ossie, pointing excitedly at a group of young women with dark tresses and film
starlet looks who were gathered at a cash desk just inside the main entrance to
the store. ‘Would they get it Marco?’ he asked, looking at me knowingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Not half son,’ I replied, wolf whistling
my approval to accompany the enthusiastic round of applause the women were
receiving from Sir Larry and Sergeant Barnes in particular.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yeah so anyway son,’ I said to El Jocko,
pausing briefly to light one of Sir Larry’s Marlboro’s, ‘basically it’s to do
with this reality TV programme they’ve been showing these past few weeks on Sky
One. The programme was called There’s Something About Miriam and it was all
about these blokes trying to win the affection of this gorgeous looking Mexican
model … who happens to bear a striking resemblance to all the birds we’ve seen
so far out here … including those chicks in the shop back there.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">El Jocko looked slightly perplexed as he
poured himself a generous glass of red wine from the carafe that Ugly John had
just handed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Oh I see, fair enough,’ he said, as he
picked up the wine glass and put it to his lips … ‘well what was it then, this
something about Miriam?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Well like all these reality TV shows,
eventually there are just two geezers left and Miriam has to pick the one that
has impressed her most … so she picks this bloke Tom who she’s had a few snog’s
with … and he’s well happy cos he gets ten grand and a week with Miriam on a
luxury yacht cruising around the Med … thing is Miriam then reveals that she is
in fact a transsexual who still has a full set of tackle … poor Tom’s crushed
and all the other blokes piss themselves laughing.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I still dinnae get it though,’ said El
Jocko, rubbing his index finger around the top of his wine glass. ‘So if this
Miriam’s really a geezer then why are you lot all raving on about her and
likening all these lovely Sardinian birds to her … I mean er … it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I dunno son … from the chest up … you
would mate … what can I say eh lads?’ I looked around the table for support and
received approving nods from everyone apart from Sir Larry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It aint bleedin normal that … er scusi
signore ancora Brandy inna that please.’ Sir Larry punctuated his lambaste with
a request to the waiter to put a brandy in the carafe he was holding close to
his chest. ‘I reckon you’re all sausage jockeys … never mind G17 you lot should
call yourselves the Chelsea poofters.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We were having an early tea in a run down
trattoria at the far end of Via Roma. At the far end of Via Roma was the Cagliari
club shop where we’d been reliably informed we could purchase tickets for their
match with Como which was taking place later in the day. The reason that we
were in the trattoria and not the club shop was simple … the club shop was
closed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In Italy, a country renown for putting off
until domani what should be wrapped up today, pretty much everything shut down
between 1.30 and 4.30pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Jeeeesus Christ!’ exclaimed Sir Larry,
throwing both his mobile phones onto the table. ‘Listen to this for a win double.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Go on then,’ said Ossie, trying to grab
one of the phones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘United have done Arsenal 1-0 in the cup
and the Chels are 1-0 up at the Lane.’ Sir Larry puffed out his chest proudly
and poured the brandy the waiter had handed him into the carafe he was holding
swirling the contents around to make absolutely certain they blended well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There was a certain amount of kudos
attached to being the first to disseminate welcome news such as that which Sir
Larry had access to through his new 3G mobile phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘That’s fucked ‘em for the treble then,
cocky Gooner shits,’ I said, clapping my hands and clenching my right fist and
waving it at the others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Now all we’ve got to do is something we
haven’t done for the last eighteen times of asking,’ retorted Young Dave. ‘Beat
the fuckers ourselves on Tuesday night and we’ll be off like as not to Madrid
in the semi-final of the Champions League … and what a laugh that will be … no
treble for them, no double even … lovely … all easy … all gravy ha ha.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That’s the way things were working
themselves out. Following our tenacious victory in Germany we had beaten
Manchester City 1-0 in the league and then drawn the return leg with Stuttgart
0-0 at the Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Claudio had been given a hard time by the
press for his tactics but none of us gave a flying fuck because Chelsea were
through to the Champions League quarterfinals. Surprisingly Manchester United
had been knocked out by FC Porto, but Real Madrid were in the draw as were AC
Milan … and Arsenal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It was inevitable that Chelsea would be
paired with Arsenal when the draw was made, gloriously predictable in fact. I’m
sure you could have heard the rumble of collective groans and cries of ‘fix!’
across the whole of West London when what was inevitable became a reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The draw for the semi-finals of the
competition had been made at the same time; the winners of our tie with Arsenal
would meet the winners of the tie between Real Madrid and Monaco. Elsewhere, AC
Milan faced Deportivo La Coruna and FC Porto had been paired with Lyon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The pressure drop on Claudio Ranieri was
immediate. In the face of growing media speculation that he was to be sacked at
the end of the season he remained concretely resolute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Back to back league victories against
Bolton Wanderers and Fulham had done little to change things. Kenyon was in for
Sven who was stalling on signing a new England contract and despite Chelsea
being a comfortable second in the Premiership it looked like Claudio Ranieri
would soon be on the outside looking in, just like Ken Bates who’d finally
resigned from the clubs board and stormed off in a huff aiming many a tabloid
broadside at the new Chelsea board.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Worse still Carlo Cudicini had injured his
hand in training and whilst Marco Ambrosio had turned in a surprisingly capable
performance in keeping a clean sheet at Bolton, he’d looked slightly less
composed in the local derby with Fulham.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Spider was not going to be back between
the posts for the visit of Arsenal in the first leg of the Champions League
quarterfinal, in fact he was going to be out for a good few weeks … the
portents for the match hadn’t been good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Ranieri’s
blue and white army … Ranieri’s blue and white army …’</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The atmosphere at the Bridge that night had
been electric, the support for the team and the manager unparalleled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Your
support is fucking shit,’</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> we’d chanted at the
Arsenal fans strung out silently along the lower tier of the East Stand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When Eidur gave us the lead, I’d thought
that the roof of the Shed was going to lift off. I wasn’t too happy about being
in the Shed, we’d originally been told that, as with the Stuttgart match, the
section that we normally occupied in the Mathew Harding Upper Stand would be
closed in accordance with the wishes of UEFA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What a load of old toffee apple, I’d
reflected. What exactly was Peter Kenyon playing at? I wondered if Roman was
pleased with the way his new CEO was performing … what exactly had he achieved
since he’d joined us from Manchester United?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Probably quite a bit, but from where I was
sitting all he’d managed to do was alienate and annoy every single Chelsea
supporter in the ground. In a two page interview that had appeared in the
Chelsea magazine Onside, there hadn’t been one single mention of the burning
question that was on every fans lips. Would Claudio Ranieri still be the
manager of Chelsea FC next season?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Kenyon had been responsible for the signing
of Peter Cech, and more recently the highly rated Dutch winger Arjen Robben …
so what? The Robben signing, what was that all about? Trying to put one over on
his old club United? What about Damien Duff? Wasn’t he good enough? What was
going to happen to him?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">‘We
don’t want Eriksson … We don’t want Eriksson.’</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The chant was as defiant as it ever had
been; the England manager watching from the stands wasn’t deaf … he’d just put
pen to paper on a contract extension. If Roman had hired Kenyon with the
proviso that he deliver Eriksson then what now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The absolute bottom line was the simple
fact that we didn’t need Eriksson … and I’d wondered if Mr Abramovich had
finally realised that. He’d won us over with his money … but now the talk about
him was less approving, and as I’d contemplated what his next strategic move to
enhance the fortunes of my team would be … the Arsenal only went and fucking
equalised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">1-1 it finished and as I’d watched the
players troop off the pitch I’d thought to myself that it wasn’t over. The
difference was that the players weren’t just playing for themselves or the
club, they were playing for their manager … our manager, the man Ranieri.
“Together with all our hearts” … Come on!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chelsea went through the month of March
unbeaten, rounding things off with an emphatic 5-2 drubbing of Wolves at
Stamford Bridge. Kenyon must have all but choked on his prawn sandwiches when
he’d heard the news that Claudio Ranieri had been voted ‘manager of the month’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’d had our letters from Eddie Barnett
informing us that we’d seen enough away games in Europe to merit a ticket for
the return leg at Highbury … and we’d be there, and I could hardly wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This pleasantly distracting trip to
Cagliari to watch Gianfranco was a welcome sideshow. I looked at the people sat
around the table with me; at the lads who were going to be at the Arsenal game
and I felt confident. Something gloriously unpredictable was going to happen on
Tuesday night … Chelsea were going to beat Arsenal in their own backyard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You ok son?’ said Ugly John, poking me in
the ribs. ‘You were a bit quiet in the restaurant earlier … is everything all
right?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘No I’m fine mate … I was just thinking
about Tuesday night … you know I really think we might do it … I’ve just got
that feeling.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You gonna put a bet on then?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Fuck off, don’t be silly … that’d be the
kiss of death, and besides I don’t gamble anymore.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You will.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Maybe I would, but I was on tenterhooks
enough without risking a monkey on Claudio and the boys. If I got back into the
gambling it would be some other time … next season maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Stadio Sant’ Elia had played host to
England in the 1990 World Cup Final’s but I didn’t remember it looking like this.
El Jocko’s weather forecast had been unerringly accurate; the shadowy clouds
that we’d seen gathering over the port earlier in the afternoon had made their
way inland, bringing with them the type of incessant rain you would normally
associate with a tropical monsoon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Each of us had wisely invested the princely
sum of 3 Euros to procure plastic Macintoshes which we had donned to protect us
from the elements … we may have looked like nerdy trainspotters, but at least
we were dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The bowl shaped stadium, originally built
to house 40,000 spectators, had been modified on its three open sides using a
combination of secure scaffolding and pressed steel to create temporary stands
which brought the fans closer to the action. This had probably halved the
capacity to 20,000 … tonight the visit of Como had attracted a crowd
approaching 10,000 at best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="mso-ansi-language: ES;">‘Como,
Como … vafanculo … Como, Como … vafanculo.’</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The continuing deluge did nothing to dampen
the passion of the Cagliari supporters whose most vociferous elements were
gathered at each end of the ground. The local Ultra’s to the right, their end
bedecked in red and blue banners and flags, led the unremitting chanting
inviting Como to go and fuck themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">MARCO & UGLY JOHN FLYING THE FLAG AT CAGLIARI<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When the players took to the pitch, it was
to a fanfare from the brass band located amongst the fans in the end to our
left. Their cacophonous trumpeting along with the flares which shrouded both
ends in billowing blankets of red smoke served to create an atmosphere which
reminded me of the time Chelsea had played AC Milan in the San Siro.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Through the gloom I could make out the
pint-sized figure of Gianfranco Zola who was stood by the halfway line wearing
the number 10 red and blue halved shirt of Cagliari.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As the game started and I watched him make
his first mazy run at the Como defence it was clear that he hadn’t lost the
magic. The hair was shorter and maybe he lacked just that extra yard of pace,
but this was still our Franco; the little man who’d brought so much pleasure to
tens of thousands of Chelsea supporters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">‘Gianfranco Zola … la la la … Gianfranco Zola … la
la la.’</span></i><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;"> </span><span lang="EN-US">Young Dave got us all at it, and our singing attracted the attention
of a group of bedraggled Cagliari supporters who came over, shook our hands and
offered us swigs of the cheap red wine they were drinking from litre sized
plastic bottles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">These hardy Sardinians, wearing customised
black bin liners to keep themselves dry, were an interesting looking bunch.
Their leader, a tall Arabic looking man with coal black eyes and a long grey
beard bore an uncanny resemblance to the worlds most wanted terrorist, Bin
Laden … which led to Sergeant Barnes christening him Osama Bin Liner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">Cagliari are
Sardinia’s principle club. </span><span lang="EN-US">Founded in 1920, they have
spent most of their life entrenched in Serie B or the lower reaches of Serie A.
Their moment of glory came in 1970 when they lifted their one and only
Scudetto. As champions of Italy, Cagliari numbered amongst their ranks the
legendary Luigi Riva, and the team formed the core of the Italian side that
reached the final of the World Cup in Mexico that summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Franco spent the formative years of his
career with two of Sardinia’s lesser teams, Nuorese and Torres before moving to
the mainland to join a Napoli side managed by a certain Claudio Ranieri who
coincidentally had previously been responsible for the stewardship of the team
we’d come to watch today, Cagliari.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Initially the understudy to the legendary
Maradona, Zola’s career had flourished in Naples once the Argentinean left for
Spain. In all he made 105 appearances for Napoli scoring 32 goals, a period
during which he also won the first of 35 international caps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Success with Napoli earned him a transfer
to big spending Parma for whom he made 103 appearances and scored 49 goals.
When he moved to Chelsea for £4.5 million in November 1996 he was already 30
years of age and few people, myself included, thought that he would go on to
become the greatest player in Chelsea’s 99 year history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Zola, wearing the number 25 shirt, played
the first of his 312 games for Chelsea, a 1-1 draw away to Blackburn Rovers,
alongside Gianluca Vialli and Mark Hughes. In the six years that followed he
gathered enough plaudits and winners medals to satisfy the ambitions of most players
and was voted ‘footballer of the year’ by his fellow professionals in 1997.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Of the 80 goals he scored in the blue of
Chelsea, three sprang readily to my mind which exemplified the compelling
genius of Gianfranco Zola.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">January 1997<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chelsea were trailing 2-0 at half-time to a
cocky Liverpool side in a fourth round FA Cup tie; Zola inspired a famous
recovery, scoring the equaliser with a wicked left foot shot from the edge of
the penalty area. Chelsea went on to win the match 4-2 and several months later
Denis Wise lifted the FA Cup at Wembley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">May 1998<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Zola entered the fray as a seventieth
minute substitute in the Cup Winners Cup final against VfB Stuttgart in the
Rasunda Stadium, Stockholm. With the game evenly poised at 0-0 and heading for
extra time, Zola latched onto a Wisey pass and dribbled the ball towards
Stuttgart’s goal before unleashing a venomous shot into the roof of the German
outfits net. The match ended in a 1-0 victory to Chelsea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">January 2002<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Chelsea were 2-0 up and cruising to a 4-0
FA Cup third round replay victory over Norwich City when Graeme Le Saux hit a
corner straight to Zola at the near-post. With a shimmy of his feet Gianfranco
deftly back-heeled the ball into the net on the volley for a stunning goal
which looked doubly amazing when we’d watched the replay on the scoreboard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now in his 38<sup>th</sup> year and rapidly
approaching the career landmark of 700 first team appearances I wondered if
Franco was going to add to the 200 odd goals <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he’d scored by obliging us with one of his
gems here in the Sant’ Elia tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sadly it wasn’t in the script. What we were
treated to for our 12.5 Euros admission money was a pulsating encounter between
two desperate teams. The home side pushing for promotion and the away side
striving to avoid relegation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Whilst Cagliari pressed for an opening in
the difficult conditions with the lively, highly rated Esposito going close
twice and the majestic looking Honduran international Suazo hitting the post,
it was Como who took the lead against the run of play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">LEGEND<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Despite having had a man sent off in the 17<sup>th</sup>
minute Como always looked dangerous on the rare occasions they were able to
breakdown the Cagliari midfield. On the half hour mark Como scored and the home
support were momentarily silenced, all that could be heard was the sound of the
rain beating down onto the reinforced steel gantry that we were stood on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Geographically, Como is located to the
north of Milan, 425<span style="color: red;"> </span>kilometres from Cagliari.
The forty odd supporters that had travelled all this way to watch their team
understandably went ballistic in response to the goal. Already soaked to the
skin, they removed their shirts and began to dance in the rain invoking the
wrath of the Cagliari ultras who responded by pelting them with eggs and
tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the pitch, Cagliari continued to press
forward; the atrocious playing conditions and the fact that their opponents
were playing with only ten men began to work in their favour and, following a
neat little one two with Zola, Esposito drilled the ball home from the edge of
the box.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The home support cheered wildly and
celebrated in some style by launching firework rockets into the air and
igniting flares. The smoke from the flares billowed down onto the pitch mixing
with the mist that was already present because of the rain to form an opaque
fog which hung in the air for several minutes forcing the referee to postpone
the restart until it had cleared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At half time we took refuge from the
elements under the stand and cracked open a welcome beer as we listened to
Young Dave’s summary of proceedings thus far. The general consensus was that
Cagliari were well on top even though this wasn’t reflected in the score-line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Whatever Como’s manager said to his players
during the lemon break inspired them sufficiently to re-take the lead five
minutes after the restart. Cagliari, buoyed by the fervent support of their own
fans, continued to play with passionate verve and it wasn’t too long before the
crowd favourite, Esposito, equalised once again with a close range volley which
saw the ball skid along the wet surface, hit the post and just evade the
outstretched fingertips of the Como goalie on its way into the back of the net.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">That goal seemed to break the spirit of the
Como team who began to look jaded; niggling fouls crept into their pattern of
play with Zola and Esposito becoming the main targets on which to vent their
frustration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Como, with ten men camped in their own half
behind the ball were now playing for the draw and as the minutes ticked by it
became clear it was going to take something special to break the deadlock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With less than ten minutes to play Zola
chipped a ball square across the centre circle to the second half substitute
Langella who advanced into the Como half, beat two defenders and from a
distance of at least 35 metres rifled the ball into the top left hand corner of
the net. Goal!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Langella, removed his shirt and sprinted to
the home supporters gathered behind the goal who responded with a pyrotechnic
display of Bonfire night proportions. It was pure football theatre; everyone,
ourselves included, rejoiced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">‘Serie
C … Serie C … Serie C,’</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> chanted the Cagliari
supporters, taunting the now forlorn looking Como fans. The ultras unfurled a
huge flag, which one of their numbers ran with from corner to corner behind the
goal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Fuck me,’ said Sir Larry, pointing at the
flag, ‘that looks like it could have been a Chelsea Headhunters flag dunnit …
look at it.’ Sir Larry was right; the flag, a St George cross on a white
background, was characterised by four black heads in each quadrant. Each head,
tilted slightly back, was facing to the right and wore a headband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘That’s the flag of Sardinia,’ said Young
Dave, with the confident air of a man who knew what he was talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Fuck me … page the bleedin Oracle,’ interjected
Ossie, slapping Young Dave on the back. Young Dave, unfazed by Ossie’s actions
continued with his explanation. ‘The heads are those of four Moors and are said
to represent defeated Arab kings … although there is a school of thought that
suggests that they may have represented slaves …’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Bleedin ell Young Dave,’ said Ugly John,
shaking his head and showering water everywhere, ‘how the fuck do you know
that?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘All in here mate,’ replied Young Dave,
pulling out Ugly John’s copy of the Lonely Planet guide to Sardinia which he
had shoved down the back of his jeans in order to keep it dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The discourse ended when our attentions
were drawn once again to the action on the pitch. A free for all, handbags at
ten paces, fist fight had broken out between both sets of players. It took the
match officials a few minutes to sort everything out and restore order, a
process that involved another red card being shown to a Como player.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At the final whistle the Cagliari players
went to each end of the ground to applaud their own supporters and as they left
the pitch I noticed something strange had happened … the rain had stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="PT-BR" style="mso-ansi-language: PT-BR;">Match result<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="PT-BR" style="mso-ansi-language: PT-BR;">Cagliari Calcio 3<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>::<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Como FC 2<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We left the stadium and went to get a beer
and a hamburger from one of the many kiosks outside. I removed my plastic Mac
and threw it into a bin, it had served me well enough. Although my jeans were
soaking wet from the knee down and the cuffs of my shirt were damp I was still
reasonably dry although my hands had gone all crinkly in the manner they used
to when I spent too much time in the bath as a kid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The car park behind us was alive with the
sound of revving engines and bibbing horns which cut across the excited chatter
of the supporters still streaming through the exit gates we were now facing. The
youngsters among them delighted in jumping into the huge puddles that had
formed on the surface of the stadiums perimeter road they had to cross to reach
the car park, but nobody cared. Everyone was far too wet already, a few
splashes here and there wouldn’t make much difference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Half an hour passed by as we mulled over
the match and Franco’s performance. The car park behind us was almost empty now
and the floodlights in the stadium had been switched off leaving us standing in
the gloomy yellow half light of the street lamps. I looked at my watch, it was
11pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Right lads,’ I said, pointing at the large
wrought iron gates that spanned the entrance to the players car park at the
rear of the stadium, ‘that should have given the little fella enough time to
get changed, come on lets see if ‘Uncle’ Robert’s worked his magic yet again.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’d told ‘Uncle’ Robert about our little
trip and he’d promised to have a word with one or two people about the
possibility of organising a meet with Zola after the game. It wasn’t something
that any of us normally got involved with but we’d bought Ugly John a Chelsea
shirt with UJ 40 on the reverse for his birthday and thought it might be a nice
touch if we could get Franco to sign it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Uncle’ Robert had sent me a one line email
which read, go to the players entrance at 11pm and when Franco comes out tell
him Gary sent you. That’s what I liked about ‘Uncle’ Robert, there was never
any flannel in the way he communicated, he always got straight to the point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Gary that ‘Uncle’ Robert was referring
to was Gary Staker. Gary did the majority of the translation work for Chelsea’s
Italian contingent and was known to be a good friend of Zola’s, so it was quite
possible that if he’d remembered to tell Franco we were coming then the little
man might well grant us our wish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There were twenty or so Cagliari fans
gathered at the gates which were being marshalled by the local Carabinieri and
a couple of stewards. The players came out in ones and twos, getting into their
X5’s and ML’s, pausing at the gates to wind down their windows and sign
autographs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Cagliari goalkeeper Pantanelli, a tall
strikingly handsome man with a mane of long black swept back hair walked across
to the gates drawing adoring sighs and gasps from several teenage girls who
reached out their hands to touch him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘He’s over there look.’ Ugly John pointed
at the diminutive figure of Gianfranco Zola who had emerged from the players’
entrance and was now walking towards us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He made his way over to the right hand side
of the gate and shook the first of many hands that were thrust his way between
its bars. He spent some time talking to Ken and Nicola a father and daughter
combo from Kent whom we’d met earlier in the day before eventually making his
way across to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Gianfranco, we are all Chelsea fans,’ I
said in English, wondering if the little fella ever got sick of the attention.
‘Did Gary mention to you that there were a group of lads coming out to see you
play?’ I asked hopefully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Yes … of course, Gary did tell me … you have
a friend who is having his 40<sup>th</sup> birthday today.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘That’s me Franco,’ said Ugly John,
propelling himself through the scrum of people now gathered at the gates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Franco spoke to the stewards and then
nodded at Ugly John. The gates opened slightly and we bundled Ugly John through
the gap. The lads with cameras took several pictures of Franco and Ugly John
shaking hands and then Franco signed the shirt we had given Ugly John for his
birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He also signed a Cagliari shirt that
Sergeant Barnes had bought for his nephew and a menu that Young Dave had
brought with him from his own restaurant. Number 25 on Young Dave’s menu is
Spaghetti Gianfranco Zola.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">CHELSEA LEGEND ZOLA FINALLY MEETS HIS HERO
UGLY JOHN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Gianfranco Zola is a Chelsea legend; I
could wax lyrical, but the inimitable Claudio Ranieri, in his own personal
touchline tribute to the little fella said everything I wanted to say, and so
much more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Zola,” said Ranieri, “is not only a great
player, he is a man. First of all you must look at the man … and when you look
at Zola you know what you have. You have somebody who you know will give you
everything he has, and with him you know there is so much. I’m privileged to
work with him, and I knew that when I first worked with him back in Italy many
years ago.”</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-size: large;">Extract from <i>Over Land and Sea a Chelsea Football Odyssey</i> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 24px; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;">by Mark Worrall </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.25in;">first edition published in 2004 by </span><a href="http://gate17.co.uk/" style="font-size: x-large; text-indent: 0.25in;">Gate 17</a></span></span></div>
Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-30821944051965522492017-10-13T04:24:00.000-07:002017-10-13T04:24:00.156-07:00Carefree! Chelsea Chants & Terrace Culture <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>CAREFREE!</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>CHELSEA CHANTS & TERRACE CULTURE </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="color: blue;">Coming soon from me & Walter Otton, a huge slab of research and writing, years in the making, "Carefree! Chelsea Chants & Terrace Culture" - cover photo provided by </span><span style="color: #355899;">Hugh Hastings </span><span style="color: blue;">- The foundations of the book are in some truly remarkable material provided by Nicholas Hapted</span><span style="color: blue;"> - correspondence between his late father Brian and Mick Greenaway. </span></span><span style="color: blue; letter-spacing: 0px;">Nick wanted us to have the papers to do justice to both their memories and we hope we've done that. </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Carefree! is a detailed exploration of the chants, songs and terrace culture associated with Chelsea Football Club. Hugh Hastings’ brilliant cover photograph and an illuminating foreword by Chelsea legend Kerry Dixon set the scene while access to the previously unpublished memoirs of legendary Chelsea supporter Mick Greenaway and interviews with old-school faces and the youth of today entwined with their own personal experiences enable Mark and Walter to paint a vivid description of the events that led to the birth of The Shed and the many changes that have followed. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A host of old-school classics including Zigger Zagger and One Man Went to Mow are dissected and dated with forensic precision, while the stories behind modern favourites such as Ivanovic and Willian are certain to bring a smile to the face as are the assortment of chants that never made it out of the pub. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Find out who walked alone first, why Nottingham Forest were hated and the remarkable truth about following Chelsea Over Land and Sea (and Leicester). From The Liquidator to La Donna e Mobile, Amazing Grace to the Adventures of Rupert the Bear and Only Fools and Horses to One Step Beyond, the ties with many different styles of music are explained. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Interwoven with the narrative are details of the games, players and events that have shaped Chelsea’s history and inspired many of the chants and songs you will read about. </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Carefree! Wherever we may be, we are the famous CFC…</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="color: blue; letter-spacing: 0px;">Carefree! is available to pre-order now in Amazon Kindle format with delivery 10 November - the paperback version will be available via Amazon mid-late November.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="color: blue; letter-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://amzn.to/2wIa9GO"><b><br /></b></a></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://amzn.to/2wIa9GO"><b>CLICK HERE TO ORDER VIA AMAZON</b></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-23078865200691090012017-06-12T11:29:00.000-07:002017-06-12T11:29:01.652-07:00The Italian Job - a Chelsea thriller starring Antonio Conte <div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 14px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 14px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">THE ITALIAN JOB </span></b></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 14px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;"><b>a Chelsea thriller starring Antonio Conte</b> </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 14px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: blue;">The Italian Job (a Chelsea thriller starring Antonio Conte: Part One) chronicles Conte’s dramatic first campaign as Blues manager. Forging a remarkable emotional bond with players and supporters alike via a unique blend of charisma, passion, philosophy and humility, Antonio Conte transformed the London club into silverware contenders once more... but football's roller coaster ride had some terrifying surprises in store.</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 14px; margin-top: -4px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: blue;">Glorious unpredictability is an expression that Chelsea author and season ticket holder Mark Worrall coined some time ago to describe the nerve-shredding drama that regularly envelops Stamford Bridge... be that snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, or turning adversity into triumph.</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 14px; margin-top: -4px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: blue;">Italian Job recounts exactly how Conte took glorious unpredictability to another level. With more outrageous plot twists than a Hitchcock thriller, week-by-week, game-by-game the tension mounts as the 2016/17 season heads towards a suspenseful conclusion.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: -4px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: blue;"><i>"Every game, every goal and everything in-between. The Italian Job is the definitive account of Antonio Conte's first season as Chelsea manager."</i><br />Total Football</span></div>
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<br />Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-34735917547009522222017-05-18T00:39:00.004-07:002017-05-18T09:43:00.258-07:00EDDIE MAC EDDIE MAC life and times at Chelsea under Eddie McCreadie<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: white;">EDDIE MAC EDDIE MAC</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: white;">life and times at Chelsea under Eddie McCreadie </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">Published by Gate 17, 20 May 2017, to coincide with the 40th anniversary of Eddie McCreadie's promotion-completing season as Chelsea manager in 1977, and also a very special tribute event in honour of the great man himself held at Under the Bridge, Stamford Bridge, <i>Eddie Mac Eddie Mac</i> is the definitive account of Eddie's time as Blues boss.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">Below is an article I wrote for the commemorative programme associated with the tribute evening.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">There are a limited number of copies of the special collectors edition of the Eddie Mac book available to buy via the cfcuk stall or the <a href="http://www.gate17.co.uk/">Gate 17 website.</a></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">FOR THE LOVE OF NOSTALGIA <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">Nostalgia: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past</i>. As far
as dictionary definitions of words go, this one pretty much hits the nail
squarely on the head. The older we get, the stronger that yearning for by-gone
days and the personalities and events that shaped them becomes. Places, people,
music, films… books… all of these things and more are capable of evoking what
has become for many of us a powerful emotion. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">The feel good factor that comes with wallowing in
nostalgia has a medicinal quality to it that cannot be underestimated. No
surprise then to find out that the word was coined by a 17th Century student
doctor by the name of Johannes Hofer who amalgamated the Greek words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nostos</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">algos</i> (homecoming and pain) and used it to describe the anxiety and
homesickness felt by mercenaries from his Swiss homeland who were fighting in
foreign lowlands… which in a round-about half-random way brings us very nicely
to another army… Eddie McCreadie’s Blue and White Army… and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eddie Mac Eddie Mac</i> book which spawned
tonight’s event at Stamford Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: blue;">The idea had been floating around for a while. cfcuk
fanzine editor David Johnstone first suggested to me that we should consider
writing a book about Eddie McCreadie’s time as Chelsea manager four or five
years ago on a rainy Autumn afternoon at the stall as we sheltered from the
elements and watched the world go by at Fulham Broadway. The idea resonated
with me deeply. I looked along the Fulham Road and shut my eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">18 September 1976 The unique mid ‘70s football
fragrance of horseshit, hamburgers, Carling Black Label and Players No.6
pervades my nostrils. I’m clambering up the weed-encroached steps at the back of
The Shed terrace. 2.55pm. Can’t miss kick-off. I go two steps at a time.
Everyone has the same idea. Feral-looking kids with straggly hair, flares and
blue and white scarves tied around their wrists jockey for position with
Harrington and Sta Prest-swathed older youths who are viciously keen not to get
their highly-polished cherry reds smudged just yet. A group of men in their 20s
and 30s who don’t dress to get respect push past. Nobody says anything. The
anticipation builds… and suddenly there it is… the Stamford Bridge pitch. The</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial";"> rain is beating down hard, large puddles forming on the
asphalt track that surround it. Momentarily, I think about </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">the
well-being of the disabled people who drive the pale-blue, three-wheeled, AC
Invacars which are allowed to park on the track in front of the terrace. I’m
distracted. </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial";">A copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bulldog,</i> the teenage orientated newspaper of the Young National
Front, the youth wing of the far right NF whose leaders John Tyndall and Martin
Webster see football terraces as prime recruitment territory, is thrust at me
by a persistent skinhead who glares at me when I ignore him. I make my way
along the top concourse of The Shed and then down the terrace… white wall to my
right, tea bar over to my left. I’ll head <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for the middle today. The dry bit! I look at
the pitch again and pick out the Subbuteo-sized players. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Chelsea’s team are young,
well most of them. Lads I identify with. The Wilkins brothers; Graham and the
prodigious Ray. Marauding centre forward Steve ‘Jock’ Finnieston. Dynamic
midfield carrot-top Ray Lewington. Kenny Swain. Swashbuckling centre-half
Stevie Wicks. Garry Stanley… he’s the one all the girls seem to like. Gary
Locke. Wizard of dribble Ian Britton. Record signing Davie Hay, and the one
concession to youth illustrious custodian of the Blues goal, ‘The Cat’, Peter
Bonetti, making his 650th appearance, still as agile as ever. The team are
managed by Eddie McCreadie. I know I love the bones of the gaffer. Along with
Bonetti, he’s a link to the fabulous kings of the King’s Road Chelsea side of
the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. The team that snared my interest… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CHEEE-ELSEA!</i> One voice. Loud, rasping,
cuts through the chitter chatter. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CHELSEA!</i>
clap, clap, clap… I join in. Everyone does. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">CHELSEA!
</i>clap, clap, clap.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">“So
what do you think then Marco?” Back to life, back to reality. David tapped me
on the shoulder. I pulled the collar of my jacket up and looked up at the
leaden sky which was still throwing down skin-soaking stair-rods of rain.
“Definitely mate,” I replied. “It’s the greatest Chelsea story never told… a
worthwhile project.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">To
be honest, I don’t like the use of the word project when it comes to
football-related matters… mainly because it reminds me of the way A*dre
Vill*s-Bo*s continually used to refer to managing Chelsea. A project! Behave!
Mind you, if V*llas-Bo*s hadn’t made a pigs ear out of his ‘project’ and got
sacked, the Blues might never have won the Champions League!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">So
yeah, anyway… about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eddie Mac Eddie
Mac</i> book project. David and me along with Kelvin Barker had co-authored a
book called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chelsea here, Chelsea there</i>
which focussed itself on a Blues away game with Arsenal in August 1984. At that
time we were Johnny Neal’s Blue and White Army. As many as 20,000 of us packed
in the Clock End and dotted all a round the Gunners fabled old ground Highbury.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tracked down the players and
interviewed them. We wrote about the life and times of the day, about a world
with no mobile phones, no internet and therefore no social media. Nostalgia
wrapped around us like a warm comforting cloak. It seemed like a good idea to
use the same structure for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eddie Mac
Eddie Mac </i>and see if we could get the same sort vibe going.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">Kelv
got a phone call. Around the same time, Mark Meehan had been thinking along the
same lines as David… he was in. Mark’s sleuth-like powers and persistence
proved invaluable in tracking down and interviewing not only the players but
the man himself… Eddie McCreadie. We decided it would be great to publish the
book on 20 May 1977, the 40th anniversary of Chelsea’s promotion back to the
old First Division under Eddie. The date was four years away. Plenty of time!
We invited Neil Smith, whom I would back against any contender in a Chelsea
Mastermind competition, to join the party and cracked on. The time flew by. And
guess what? We only just made the deadline! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Eddie Mac Eddie Mac</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> is the 22nd title to be
published by Gate 17, and already it has a special place in my heart simply
because it recalls a time when I was growing up. Football, music and fashion
coloured a dreary world that was quite often fraught with danger. It’s often said
that a picture paints a thousand words… but maybe that’s because the words
don’t convey enough detail. I hope we’ve managed to that for you with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eddie Mac Eddie Mac</i> because we didn’t
have a budget for any pictures! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">Finally,
the book would not have been the same without Mr McCreadie’s willingness to
participate and provide what I personally believe is the most insightful and
honest account of a life in and out of football I’ve ever read. So thank you
Eddie, I hope that tonight’s special event is filled happiness for you… and for
everyone attending, enjoy the trip down memory lane and reliving the days when
Eddie McCreadie’s Blue and White Army was the glue that bound so many lives
together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">MARK WORRALL <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">London May 2017</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://twitter.com/gate17marco">twitter @gate17marco</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-55911119977944970862016-12-04T01:18:00.002-08:002016-12-04T01:18:53.188-08:00THIS DAMNATION -- last few first edition paperbacks available for open sale<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b><span style="color: blue;">PATRIOTISM,</span><span style="color: red;"> COURAGE, </span><span style="color: blue;">FRIENDSHIP, </span><span style="color: red;">LOVE, </span><span style="color: blue;">HATE, </span><span style="color: red;">OBSESSION, </span><span style="color: blue;">MURDER, </span><span style="color: red;">REVENGE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>looking for a Christmas stocking filler?</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Last few first edition paperback copies of <span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span> available for open sale. </b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdZ9SPZh3aELJqvhK1kMPIaISsQT8XwZ_wQvj8OM2yxjCqRAfH9wHy0qlHQ3tEpV9aGGl4Fz__HE3J7w_3IAI3IFfZmlVYmUtiH0jK2Dlk_i3SNaGuzuTI2CN9ZyzGwmx36dy0ZFBpK8/s1600/IMAG1325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmdZ9SPZh3aELJqvhK1kMPIaISsQT8XwZ_wQvj8OM2yxjCqRAfH9wHy0qlHQ3tEpV9aGGl4Fz__HE3J7w_3IAI3IFfZmlVYmUtiH0jK2Dlk_i3SNaGuzuTI2CN9ZyzGwmx36dy0ZFBpK8/s400/IMAG1325.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>From the backstreets of Battersea and the terraces of Stamford Bridge, to battlefields serving Crown and Country and beyond... follow Kennedy Jones' life as it spirals violently out of control during the quest to unravel the truth about his father's murder.</b></div>
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<b>signed copies available: </b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">UK £10 inclusive of postage <a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=Y4T3D3UNRSBTC">CLICK HERE</a></span></b></div>
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<b>EUROPE £18.50 inclusive of postage <a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=J3YBY3ULJRJRL">CLICK HERE</a></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">OUTSIDE EUROPE £22.50 inclusive of postage <a href="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=KRLUBM3VAHP3A">CLICK HERE</a> </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">"With its deep roots and deeper obsessions, this fine novel digs into notions of love and loss and longing in powerful fashion. Open <span style="color: blue;">THIS </span><span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span> and you won't be putting it down anytime soon." </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">JOHN KING author of THE FOOTBALL FACTORY and HUMAN PUNK</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="color: blue;">THIS</span><span style="color: red;"> DAMNATION</span> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>reviews</b></span></div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-41157785554145023842016-10-21T03:19:00.003-07:002016-10-21T03:24:11.287-07:00Matthew Harding - The Man Who Loved Life -<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial bold"; font-size: 18.0pt;">THE MAN WHO LOVED LIFE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial bold"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">TRIBUTE TO MATTHEW HARDING<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">My alarm clock-radio clicked on at 5.55am, the same as it always did. A
couple of hours sleep hadn’t done me too many favours, I rubbed my eyes and lay
in the darkness waiting for the 6am news bulletin whilst questioning the sanity
of my trip to Burnden Park the previous evening to watch Premier League Chelsea
play Bolton Wanderers of what was then referred to as the First Division in a
League Cup tie.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Blues had lost the match 2-1 in a pulsating encounter, snatching
defeat from the jaws of victory after Scott Minto had given travelling fans
some early cheer with a fabulous 2</span></b><b><sup><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">nd</span></sup></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> minute goal. Player-manager Ruud Gullit, making his first appearance of
the season, had been Chelsea’s best player, but the enterprising Trotters had
dispatched their illustrious visitors with a gung-ho performance which had left
those who’d bothered making the trip from London cursing the same-old-same-old.
As maddening as mercury, that was Chelsea for you.</span></b></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">‘Where were you when you were shit?’</span></i></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> is a popular taunt levied at 21</span></b><b><sup><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.0pt;">st</span></sup></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Century Blues fans. ‘How much time have you got?’ I am prone to reply.
The League Cup ha ha ha. Any Chelsea masochist of a certain age will regale you
with tales of woe involving calamitous defeats at footballing outposts such as
Crewe, Scunthorpe, Scarborough and Wigan … losing a days wages and a nights
sleep following the Blues on the road to nowhere was a character-forming part
of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">6am, I’m bolt upright, turning up the volume on the radio … shocked by
the lead item on the news which is confirming an earlier report that Chelsea
Football Club vice-chairman, Matthew Harding had been killed in a helicopter
crash. Multi-millionaire Mr Harding, 42, pilot Michael Goss, 38, businessmen
Tony Burridge, 39, and Raymond Deane, 43, and magazine journalist John Bauldie,
47, died instantly when the Twin Squirrel aircraft crashed into farmland near
Middlewich, Cheshire, and burst into flames as it was carrying the party home
from a Chelsea v Bolton cup tie.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I was stunned.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It wasn’t as if Matthew was a personal friend or anything like that. I’d
met him several times, but this had been well before he’d answered Ken Bates’
plea for financial assistance. An ex-girlfriend had been in charge of the
directors’ dining room at Benfield’s, the city-based re-insurance group of
which Matthew was chairman and as such I used to get to go to various company
knees-ups. As we all know a shared love of Chelsea transcends traditional
barriers of class, not that Matthew had any airs and graces. Office-boy made
good, rags to riches and all that … good luck to him. Matthew welcomed a
chin-wag with a like minded Chelsea individual, and here was a man who’d first
stood on the Shed as an eight-year old boy and followed them ever since … home and
away.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJ1ycLVj1-y_EcOWvt85wr2p65avumc4r1N29rkzmcakyhIrrLCT6plcQ0vZ4PVcCDxUfVpW03kDFBCqYeo5IurCrXrjcdyD0PRMDNrdicGleV7kqgZm3xjrZ4uB61nNYSOnfuqPiYFA/s1600/nintchdbpict000000967817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJ1ycLVj1-y_EcOWvt85wr2p65avumc4r1N29rkzmcakyhIrrLCT6plcQ0vZ4PVcCDxUfVpW03kDFBCqYeo5IurCrXrjcdyD0PRMDNrdicGleV7kqgZm3xjrZ4uB61nNYSOnfuqPiYFA/s320/nintchdbpict000000967817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">When the phone calls started as word got around that Matthew Harding had
been tragically killed, I couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t been the
millionaire businessman that he was, then he would still have been alive having
journeyed to and from Burnden Park by more conventional means than helicopter.
Come the end of the day, flowers, scarves, and notes of condolence festooned
the Stamford Bridge gates as supporters gathered to share in their grief. The
uninformed passerby might have thought a famous Chelsea footballer from
yesteryear had died as opposed to the Club vice-chairman. But then the
uninformed passerby could never have known just what Matthew Harding had come
to mean to the supporters of Chelsea Football Club … and that was the reason
I’d been stunned by the news at my waking hour.</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ken Bates famously bought Chelsea for £1, and some fans are of the
opinion that by the time he sold out to Roman Abramovich he’d transformed the
club into one of the biggest names in European football. Others have suggested
that old Greybeard took over a club with debts of £600,000 and increased them
so spectacularly that it became a case of selling Chelsea to the Russian
billionaire or watching them go to the wall in cataclysmic fashion. Bates’
obsession with creating Chelsea Village almost bankrupted the club long before
Mr A came on the scene and this precipitated Matthew Harding’s formal
involvement during the 1993-94 season. Ken Bates later recalled the telephone
conversation which launched their unlikely and some might say unholy alliance.
“Ken Bates here,” he said. “I understand you’re richer than I am, so we’d
better get together.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Harding, immediately weighed Chelsea in with £5million to fund the
construction of a new North Stand, and also lent the club more than twice that
amount to purchase players. But there was no question of the younger man
adopting the traditional boardroom values so beloved of Mr Bates. To the best
of my knowledge I never saw Ken Bates wearing a Chelsea replica kit, or
drinking with supporters in The Imperial public house on the Kings Road before
a game. Who can forget Matthew turning up at the unveiling of Gianluca Vialli
as a Blues player clutching a brand new home shirt already emblazoned with his
name and number? “I’m just a fan who’s done rather well,” he once said, and the
Chelsea massive took him to their hearts.</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Bates’ priority was to build a futuristic stadium, Harding wanted a
swashbuckling team to match the heroes of his youth. The two men were on a
collision course which eventually resulted in Bates banning Harding from the
directors’ box, citing “behaviour related to your heavy drinking both home and
away”. The letter sent to Harding contained a P.S. which read: “Please ensure
that your `Bates Out’ banner in the Main Stand does not obscure the valuable
advertisement panels”. “Never mind,” replied Matthew, “I’ll go and sit in the
North Stand. I presume that’s alright with you. After all, I did pay for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The ban galvanised popular support for Harding and by now a large majority
of fans wanted him to take over. A well-known spokesman for the Chelsea
Independent Supporters’ Association crystalised opinion at the time saying,
“Bates appears to think it is his club, while Harding’s attitude is that it is
our club.” (The current market-leading Chelsea fanzine, cfcuk whose origins can
be traced back to the CISA, originally came to life as Matthew Harding’s Blue
and White Army and to this very day it still carries the strap-line published
in memory of Matthew Harding on every single page.)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The bitter public feud rumbled on with Harding pledging that Chelsea
fans would be given a vote in the future of the club if he won his power battle
with Bates. “If I become chairman I intend to break some moulds, and one plan I
have is to give club members the right to re-elect me as chairman. Chelsea have
more than 25,000 members and they are the emotional shareholders of the club. I
would go to them every summer and I’ll promise you this now. If there was a
majority voting against me I would stand down instantly.” Harding’s words
stirred the True Blue soul … ‘Matthew Harding’s Blue and White Army’, the chant
would echo around the Bridge on match-days a testament to the faith supporters
had in him.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In December 1995, the club announced after a board meeting that the pair
would lunch and sit together at the home Premiership match against Newcastle.
That implied Bates had agreed to lift the ban on Harding taking his seat in the
directors’ box and using the boardroom facilities, though at the time both men
refused to comment. By October 1996, Matthew Harding had committed £26.5
million to Chelsea Football Club and the irony was that both he and Bates were
on the way to realising their own idealistic dreams. Had he lived, Matthew
would have seen the Blues win the FA Cup at the end of the season and his
journey to glory would have been complete.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Saturday October 26th 1996 Chelsea are at home to arch-rivals Spurs. The
game itself was destined to be a sideshow from the minute Ken Bates took the
decision was taken not to postpone it and, as wakes go, it turned into quite a
knees-up-mother-Brown party. Wreaths from both clubs were laid in the centre
circle before the match, with a pint of Guinness for Harding standing on the
centre spot; Dennis Wise and Steve Clarke, team captain and club captain
respectively, carried out a floral message reading “Matthew RIP” and presented
it in front of the newly-named Matthew Harding Stand.</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As the Chelsea players linked hands and stood, like the rest of us in
the ground, waiting for referee Roger Dilkes to blow his whistle to signal the
start of a minutes silence I wondered if this moment of reflection would be
tarnished by ignorant morons as they usually were. Chelsea v Tottenham? It’s
never been a marriage made in heaven now has it? From the first second to the
last, you could have heard a pin drop. The hairs on the back of my neck stood
on end. That Chelsea fans stood silent was not unexpected, that Spurs fans
followed suite only added to Matthew Harding’s legend. Every supporter inside
Stamford Bridge no matter what their allegiance recognised a part of themselves
in Matthew … a supporter first and foremost … one of us.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Matthew Harding’s favourite expression was “Enjoy the game!” and boy
would he have enjoyed this one. Chelsea took Spurs apart with a 3-1 victory,
the goals coming from Ruud Gullit, David Lee and Roberto Di Matteo. “Everyone
in the stadium today participated in a special way,” Gullit said in his
post-match interview, “including the Tottenham supporters, and on behalf of the
team and the staff I want to thank them. Everybody’s just happy about the way
they played, and it was a perfect tribute to Matthew.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Matthew Harding was only involved in the running of Chelsea Football
Club for three years or so which makes it all the more remarkable that he could
have made such an impression on Blues fans in such a short space of time. That
he did is a testimony to the man and his principals. Chelsea supporter first
and foremost, businessman second … a true man of the people, born on the Shed.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Matthew Charles Harding <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">born Haywards Heath, Sussex 26
December 1953 <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Vice-Chairman, Chelsea Football Club
1995- 96 <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">died 22 October 1996 <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">WE SALUTE YOU<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RIP MATTHEW<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial black";">MARK
WORRALL<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial black";"><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/gate17marco"><span style="color: blue;">twitter
@gate17marco</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-90870174154110570042016-03-25T16:08:00.002-07:002016-03-25T16:08:22.658-07:00This Damnation makes the news in the Falkland Islands. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-3707815605399907792016-02-26T01:25:00.001-08:002016-02-26T01:25:14.904-08:00PRAISE FOR THIS DAMNATION <div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span> </span></b></div>
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<b>some nice Amazon reviews </b></div>
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<b>thank you</b></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue;">THIS </span><span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><b><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0955745969?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creativeASIN=0955745969&linkCode=xm2&tag=mwcg1-21">paperback and kindle formats now available from Amazon</a></b></span></div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-81247101500336261002015-11-14T07:02:00.002-08:002015-12-06T07:00:38.846-08:00This Damnation book launch <div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span></b></div>
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<b>book launch </b></div>
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<b>13 11 2015</b></div>
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<b>Cheam Sports Club </b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;">A big thank you to all the lovely people who attended the </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;"><span style="color: blue;">This</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;"><span style="color: red;">Damnation</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: start;"> book launch - the final figure raised for the Cheam Sports Club Poppy Appeal via book sales, raffle and auction was £2000. The young, the not so young, and men of the highest calibre who served Crown and Country gathered together in great spirit. In the wake of the Paris atrocities, such events are a reminder that decency and humanity will always shine through the darkness and evil in this world.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span> is officially published on November 28</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0955745969?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creativeASIN=0955745969&linkCode=xm2&tag=mwcg1-21">click here to pre-order from Amazon - paperback and ebook</a> </div>
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-56564840338085044162015-11-07T01:22:00.001-08:002015-11-07T01:22:02.070-08:00This Damnation full cover artwork<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: blue;">THIS</span> <span style="color: red;">DAMNATION</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">full cover artwork</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXDpi2INcadVdh_p1UvsTKM0Omd0RX4-gwqZoVXxymyn0Wixtnix5Ee5JM0NS06fY4Zw6pvgZm74GxiyhP3pVP3wrvom5_ph1MmtAvlQw1RpIOMkBfAhhERLkgcO4iCJ2EXDAjN1ojlI/s1600/TD+full+cover+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXDpi2INcadVdh_p1UvsTKM0Omd0RX4-gwqZoVXxymyn0Wixtnix5Ee5JM0NS06fY4Zw6pvgZm74GxiyhP3pVP3wrvom5_ph1MmtAvlQw1RpIOMkBfAhhERLkgcO4iCJ2EXDAjN1ojlI/s400/TD+full+cover+.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0955745969?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creativeASIN=0955745969&linkCode=xm2&tag=mwcg1-21">AVAILABLE TO PRE-ORDER NOW</a></div>
Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-54206147502037731142015-10-08T09:56:00.000-07:002015-10-08T09:56:11.785-07:00This Damnation - artwork sculpture for back cover photos and promo video <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">This amazing work of art / sculpture was created and built by mate Russell De Rozario and his lad Oskar. Each of the compartments relate to chapters in This Damnation. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;"> Elements have been used in the back cover photo of the book and a promo video. It's in Russell's studio in Uxbridge at the moment - but if we can figure a way of getting it to Cheam for the book launch party on November 13th - it will be there.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkFt3OjgRbOd5NRmmhA3P7W8RP5k72i1-gQCA-3dn1Uzf3qG33OUcfBG6vtUBjTtkJ-S-K_w8kLs_MSn5NdYFCiMwTu2LsV0qk7JyDgjJ2yw929UZ2zvnoedWfxCv-AosdjnkqhndXfk/s1600/DSC00841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkFt3OjgRbOd5NRmmhA3P7W8RP5k72i1-gQCA-3dn1Uzf3qG33OUcfBG6vtUBjTtkJ-S-K_w8kLs_MSn5NdYFCiMwTu2LsV0qk7JyDgjJ2yw929UZ2zvnoedWfxCv-AosdjnkqhndXfk/s640/DSC00841.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-91166188520027453762015-09-09T12:27:00.001-07:002015-09-09T12:27:32.953-07:00This Damnation - charity book launch party - November 13th 2015 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1pTaNuEG__L5ArnRWe-H4ZqPMcoUVXFFKoRjsopnnNmH-IvXvRMUgUwlfG0zpitH58rRZ271jAB2bICIHJdRjNCJ6rO32Fo3Ws_nNXusy3IkEVdkY_MWy_76UupFj6NHZEXXyDwEp8E/s1600/This+Damnation+book+launch+invite+13November2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1pTaNuEG__L5ArnRWe-H4ZqPMcoUVXFFKoRjsopnnNmH-IvXvRMUgUwlfG0zpitH58rRZ271jAB2bICIHJdRjNCJ6rO32Fo3Ws_nNXusy3IkEVdkY_MWy_76UupFj6NHZEXXyDwEp8E/s640/This+Damnation+book+launch+invite+13November2015.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-14610388282941426592015-07-26T14:09:00.000-07:002015-10-28T01:59:00.260-07:00This Damnation cover <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ76zaILfRXzE4W7taa_7dc0GQYb-5OHsbhodsqQdIhRi3gkpXYwq4j8eUzZAGZS2k4MYgS_KajE7US94NKw9ArqJeskNU-92JdWD0S5t_C6_NVpxxWYe0SjiyiLvMhdectxN0vnchOPY/s1600/Worrall_DRAFT%2528RR%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ76zaILfRXzE4W7taa_7dc0GQYb-5OHsbhodsqQdIhRi3gkpXYwq4j8eUzZAGZS2k4MYgS_KajE7US94NKw9ArqJeskNU-92JdWD0S5t_C6_NVpxxWYe0SjiyiLvMhdectxN0vnchOPY/s640/Worrall_DRAFT%2528RR%2529.jpg" width="410" /></a></div>
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'This Damnation' scheduled for publication 28th November 2015</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9BRkUzplUbbcrT69m321OQmIuaEtXTfaGxofz6ueWNbODzY5DxPrAmxCRk9wqkSoA0YWF_oZXGO_czZOonPOQUK75wcLIk9I-diEmE_-8tqfgke7FBaAje82BeOa-1JZNL_qggaZC5k/s1600/This+Damnation+advert+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9BRkUzplUbbcrT69m321OQmIuaEtXTfaGxofz6ueWNbODzY5DxPrAmxCRk9wqkSoA0YWF_oZXGO_czZOonPOQUK75wcLIk9I-diEmE_-8tqfgke7FBaAje82BeOa-1JZNL_qggaZC5k/s400/This+Damnation+advert+.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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big thank you to John King for the endorsement</div>
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big thank you to Jennifer Parker at Troubador for the cover design</div>
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"This Damnation"</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0955745969?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creativeASIN=0955745969&linkCode=xm2&tag=mwcg1-21">paperback available for preorder now from Amazon £9.95</a></div>
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<br />Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187803970992811073.post-19994029055303710232012-11-14T14:21:00.000-08:002012-11-14T14:21:09.517-08:00HELPFUL LESSONS IN LIFE FROM GATE 17<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>GATE 17 LESSON FOR TODAY</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><b>sometimes, we try too hard to get to the greener grass</b></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><br /> ..... and In the process, we end up in trouble ......<br /><br />and when you find yourself in trouble, </b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">and you're stuck in a situation that you can't get out of, </span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">there is one thing you should </span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">always remember .......</span></span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> N</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">ot everyone who shows up ... is there to help you!!!! </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span></b></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: 'Tahoma','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /><span style="color: navy;"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><v:shape alt="[]" id="_x0000_i1026" style="height: 345pt; width: 480pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><v:imagedata o:href="cid:image003.jpg@01CDC27A.2240E790" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\mworrall\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg"></v:imagedata></v:shape></span><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: navy; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> THAT IS THE END OF TODAY'S GATE 17 LESSON</b></span></span></span><br />
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Mark Worrallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11192985253987315345noreply@blogger.com1