Extract from Over Land and Sea a Chelsea Football Odyssey
AS MONACO FC
V
CHELSEA
UEFA Champions League
Semi-final First Leg
Stade Louis II Monaco
Tuesday April 20th 2004
‘Seriously … is that what the cab driver said?’ I asked,
raising my eyebrows to indicate my genuine surprise.
‘I’m telling you son, that’s exactly what he said, didn’t he
Baby Gap,’ replied Ossie, kicking a small pebble along the concrete esplanade
on which we were walking.
Baby Gap Brian skipped after the pebble and back heeled it
me. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled, squinting into the warming rays of the mid-morning sun
and adjusting his sunglasses, ‘he said, “You are Chelsea yes … then you must
fuck Monaco, they are a bad team, bad people, bad money, fuck zem for ze rest
of France yes”, which seemed a bit on the harsh side knoworrimean.’
‘Just a bit mate,’ I replied, kicking the pebble into the
crystal clear water of the adjacent marina. ‘What is it about these teams eh?
When we were in Rome it was the same with Lazio … mind you, I suppose back home
if you’d spoken to a Porto supporter over here for their game with Man U the
other week, you would probably have said the same sort of thing.’
‘Funny thing is though Porto did fuck Man U ha ha,’ said
Ossie, looking back across the yacht basin to see if Ugly John and his mate
Jogger were still on their own by the hire car.
***
It was 10.30am and we were kicking our heels in Beaulieu sur
Mer, one of the many picturesque resort towns that are dotted along the entire
length of the N98 coastal
road which snaked along the entire length of the French Riviera.
It had been a particularly early start for me today; being
awoken at 3.55am by the cacophony created by several alarm clocks, the alarm
function on my mobile phone and the TV which I’d programmed to switch itself on
at this time was not conducive to putting you in the best frame of mind.
“There’s nothing good about that”, Ossie would have bleated,
if he’d been misfortunate enough to have to rise at this time of the morning …
but he hadn’t. Both he and Baby Gap had flown out to Nice from Luton the
previous evening and kept me awake until 1.00am with a barrage of text messages
each detailing in increasingly lurid detail the quality of the local female
talent that was dancing the night away in bar called Le Havane which they’d
happened on as they’d returned from a late evening stroll along the Promenade
des Anglais.
Setting a new personal best for the time it took me to get
up and get ready, I’d then managed the drive to Gatwick in a license
threatening thirty minutes which enabled me to rendezvous on time with Ugly
John and his mysterious acquaintance Jog-On at the easyJet check in desk.
The flight to Nice had departed without delay, arriving on
schedule an hour and a half later at 9.30am local time. On arrival we’d picked
up a hire car that Ugly John had secured a special deal for and Jog-On got
behind the wheel and drove the short distance from the airport into the city centre.
Ugly John, sporting a new particularly bristly suedehead
haircut, was becoming increasingly adept at putting our travel packages
together and wheeling and dealing on the final price. Not only had he booked
our trip, but he’d also sorted out Ossie and Baby Gap and also the rest of the
Chelsea Gate 17 boys who were flying out from Bristol and scheduled to arrive
in Nice at around midday.
Jog-On, a lean suntanned balding man who bore more than a
passing resemblance to Michael Stipe the lead singer of REM, was an ex work
colleague of Ugly John’s and an occasional Chelsea supporter. When questions
had been asked about his Gate 17 pedigree, Ugly John had told us that Jog-On
knew the south of France like the back
of his hand and more importantly he’d also agreed to do all the driving.
Being navigationally challenged when it came to driving on
the continent, I was more than happy that the mantle of vehicular
responsibility now lay with Jog-On who’d confidently found his way to the
Kyriad Hotel in Nice where Ugly John had
booked our accommodation.
As it turned out Ugly John had played his Joker in bringing
along Jog-On whom, after we’d checked in and met up with Ossie and Baby Gap,
had made a call in fluent French to a ticket tout who had five tickets for sale
for this evenings match.
Jog-On had sourced the tickets on the French version of
E-Bay and had arranged to meet the tout in Beaulieu sur Mer to complete the
transaction. The tickets were not going cheap. Geordie Jase had paid a London
based ticket agency £200 for a ticket with a face value of 30 Euros, which at
the prevailing exchange rate converted to £21.28!
The five tickets Jog-On had sourced were going to cost 150
Euros ( £106.38) each. Young Dave had a contact that worked in Monaco who had
told him he would be able to get us any further tickets we required for the
same price.
Young Dave and I had acquired two tickets from Chelsea
directly through the same ‘Eddie Barnett letter system’ that had seen us secure
tickets for the Arsenal away match. The club still had the audacity to load the
price, charging us £25 for a 30 Euro ticket and profiting once again from those
fans that represented their most loyal support.
Chelsea’s official ticket allocation for the match was a
meagre 1400 which reflected the low capacity of Stade Louis II. With 2500 blues fans anticipated to make the journey it was
obvious that black market tickets would be priced at a premium and that the
touts would rake in a handsome profit.
***
‘Oi Marco, over here son … oi lads come on.’
I looked back down the promenade now shaded by the
low-hanging mulberry trees that were planted
evenly along its perimeter with the marina and saw Ugly John beckoning me over
to where he was stood with Jog-On.
As we walked back I could see that a black VW Golf had
parked up alongside our car and two youngish looking lads were talking to Jog-On
whilst Ugly John looked on with a worried expression on his face.
‘Show me your ticket Marco,’ said Ugly John, clicking the
fingers of his right hand impatiently. I got my ticket out of my wallet and
gave it to Ugly John who held it up to the light and closely inspected the
security hologram.
‘Yeah … spot on,’ he said, handing me back my ticket and
nodding at Jog-On and the two touts who couldn’t have been aged more than
seventeen or eighteen. Ugly John and Jog-On concluded the transaction whilst we
looked on. The two touts counted out the money to each other and then the four
of them shook hands.
‘Enterprising little bastards,’ said Jog-On, as we watched
the touts get into their car and speed out of the marina car park. ‘They told
me that they were still at school and had to get back for a maths lesson,’ he
continued, shaking his head as he shuffled the five match tickets in his hands.
‘Nice work Jog-On,’ I said, giving him the thumbs up, ‘at
the end of the day, who gives a fuck … everyone’s happy, you lot now get to see
the match and they’ve probably just made more cash in ten minutes than their
maths teacher makes in a fortnight … all easy.’
***
Jog-On suggested that we drive back a couple of kilometres
towards Nice and have a few beers at a terrace café he knew in a place called
Villefranche sur Mer. As he drove slowly back along the cliff top road and then
negotiated the hairpin bends that eased our descent into the town, I looked
down across the red tile roofs of what was sign posted vieille ville (old town), and my eyes lingered on the yellow washed
walls of the tall narrow bell-tower that formed part of a medieval looking
church.
The view was picture postcard perfect. I followed my line of
sight down the steep slope, along the narrow cobblestone streets that cut
through quiet looking squares and across the long sandy strip of beach that
flanked the Mediterranean Sea.
‘Fuck me, that’s a view innit,’ I said, inarticulately
voicing my opinion as I marvelled at the way the suns rays shimmered and
sparkled on the tranquil surface of the sea which was the type of blue that you
always imagined the sea would be when you were a small inner city child.
Chorus lines of gangly palm trees fringed the beach and
completed the panorama which began to narrow in my perspective as Jogger drove
the car the last few hundred metres down into the town.
***
‘They got that right didn’t they the old Frog’s,’ said Baby
Gap Brian, as we made our way through a vaulted passageway that led us into the
chocolate box square which was home to the terrace café Jog-On had spoken of.
‘What?’ asked Ugly John, rubbing his stomach as he spotted
three elderly couples sat outside the café sipping what was most probably ice
cold beer from thin stemmed crystal glasses.
‘Calling it er er that er er the Cote d’ Azur … the blue
coast,’ replied Baby Gap Brian hesitantly, distracted as we all were by the nut
brown tanned, raven haired beauty who exhibited catwalk style deportment as she
sashayed passed us.
‘It’s called the blue coast not cos of the colour of the sea
but cos they make a lot of blue movies here, with birds like that in em,’ I
said nonchalantly, smiling as I watched the female halves of the couples arch
their eyebrows disapprovingly as their partners drooled at the girl as she
walked on by.
With the sun high in a cloudless, pastel blue sky and the
gentlest of sea breezes fanning our faces we sat, continental style, outside
the café savouring the chilled out atmosphere that Villefranche sur Mer
afforded us.
‘Tina Turner lives here,’ said Ossie, as he drew our
attention to a couple of exquisite looking women who were stood at the top end
of the square talking to one another.
‘Funny aint it,’ I said, as I perused the menu contemplating
what to eat, ‘we’re here to watch Chelsea and we haven’t even spoken about the
match yet.’ I shook my head as a youngish woman rode by on one of those vintage
looking ‘sit up and beg’ bicycles. Her long blonde hair flowed behind her as
she pedalled effortlessly past us and as she did so I wanted to call out
‘excuse me’ so that she would look my way allowing me to put a face to the
youthful vitality she exuded.
Well since you’ve mentioned it,’ said Ugly John, pursing his
lips and blowing a kiss after the girl on the bicycle, ‘whaddya reckon?’
‘I think we’re gonna lose 3-1,’ I replied, lighting up a
Marlboro and inhaling deeply before expanding on my prediction. ‘And I’ll tell
you why I think that, it’s a confidence thing … like a Chelsea thing, like you
never know what’s gonna happen. We won at Arsenal and Claudio Ranieri and the
lads were drenched in a waterfall of positive publicity … then what happens?’
‘We aint won since,’ answered Jog-On, moving his chair in
such a way that he now had the best vantage point to view the comings and
goings in the square. ‘A couple of dour 0-0’s and a beating away at Villa … and
all of a sudden the same old questions are being asked of Claudio, his team
selections and strategy.’
Jog-On was right, one minute the papers were full of praise
for Ranieri, the next they were full of stories about Peter Kenyon flagrantly
courting other managers, the latest rumoured to be the Aston Villa boss David
O’Leary and FC Porto’s highly regarded young coach Jose Mourhino.
‘I reckon Marco’s got a point,’ said Ossie, signalling the
waiter to bring five more beers to our table. ‘Bill Gallas being out worries
me, and we miss out not having Duff as an option … dunno about conceding three
goals … mind you, they can score this lot and that Morientes is proper tasty up
front.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, licking my lips with hungry anticipation
as our waiter placed the plate of freshly fried squid I’d ordered on the table
in front of me. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prophet of doom but I’ve just got a
bad feeling about this one cos I’m not feeling anything, no pmt nothing … fuck
me this squids lovely, drizzled in a lime and chilli sauce ooooh,’ I continued,
speaking with my mouth full as I began to eat my lunch.
‘Well lads,’ said Ugly John, looking up from his mobile
phone, ‘it looks like we might as well stay here for a bit cos the Monaco plod
have ordered all the bars to stop serving alcohol between 3 and 9pm … just had
a text message from a mate of mine who lives there saying that they are coming
down hard on anyone behaving rowdily and wearing colours.’
‘Well that suits me son,’ I said, voicing everyone’s opinion
for them. ‘Young Dave and that lot don’t land in Nice for another hour or so …
let’s wait for them to call and then we can arrange to meet up in Monaco at
around 4pm.’
No one objected in the slightest, so we remained a while
longer sitting in the sunshine enjoying our lunch whilst swapping anecdotes and
theories which were occasionally interspersed with comments about the ladies of
Villefranche and what we’d to do to them.
‘Kipling!’ said Ossie, stirring us from the daydreaming we
had succumbed to following lunch and several sunshine beers.
‘Where!’ said Baby Gap Brian, jolting forward in his chair
as if he’d just been poked with an electric cattle prod.
‘Uh … huh, they won’t have them cakes here,’ I said, yawning
and hoping that the adrenalin buzz of being away with Chelsea would kick in
soon to rid me of my soporific mood.
Jog-On looked on, his poker face inscrutable. I waited for
him to pass comment but he didn’t. Ugly John removed his sunglasses and rubbed
his eyes before cracking the joints of his knuckles one by one. He knew that
Ossie was about to volunteer some profound piece of trivia related to Chelsea
that would leave us scratching our heads in a bewildered manner.
‘Not Mr Kipling of exceedingly good cakes fame,’ said Ossie,
pausing to stretch his arms Seagull style, an act which prompted a series of
squawks from Baby Gap, Ugly and myself that had everyone sat nearby drawing
their sunglasses down the bridges of their noses and peering at us
suspiciously. ‘No … no, I mean Rudyard Kipling … the geezer that wrote Jungle
Book.’
GATE 17 MONACO
‘What about him then?’ I said, wondering what tenuous link
there might be between a famous poet and Chelsea. It had to be a link with
Chelsea as that was to be Ossie’s specialist subject should he ever be asked to
appear on Mastermind.
‘His poetry inspires Claudio,’ replied Ossie, sitting
forward in his chair knowing that he now had our full and undivided attention.
‘Fuck off,’ said Baby Gap Brian, smirking, ‘what like his
team selections are inspired by Balloo the fucking bear and that irritating
little kid Mowgli … I should bleedin coco … mmm mind you though.’
‘I’m being serious,’ said Ossie, standing up and making a
theatrical gesture with his left hand that Sir Larry would have been proud of.
‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat these two impostors just
the same and all that and everything er er then something and er … you will be
a man my son. It’s from Kipling’s poem ‘If’. Claudio said, he’d read it as a
kid and he continued to read it now when he needed to reassure himself about
what he was doing and why.’
‘Good story,’ I said, looking at the time on my watch. ‘And
your prediction Ossie for tonight is?’
‘1-1,’ said Ossie, gaining the agreement of everyone except
Ugly John who flicked V signs with both hands to indicate his prediction of the
match result was 2-2.
At that point my phone rang; it was Young Dave calling to
inform me that he and the rest of the crew were on the ground in Nice and
mobilising themselves for the final push to Monaco … by helicopter. A 20km
journey that would take less than ten minutes and cost each of them 50 Euros.
***
The Principality of Monaco is a sovereign and independent
state that shares borders on its landward side with several communes of the
French Department of the Alpes-Maritimes. Seawards, Monaco faces the
Mediterranean. The Principality, renown for being the playground of the rich
and famous, is no bigger than Hyde Park and yet has more police per square
metre than any other country in the world.
Normally their function is to protect the riches of its
citizens and non-French residents, however today they were out in force to ensure
that order was maintained before, during and after the match.
‘Rule Britannia …
Britannia rules the waves … Britons never, never, never shall
be slaves …’
Ronny Cutlass and ten of his cohorts were gathered outside a
small bar in the shopping precinct adjacent to the underground car-park from
which we had just emerged squinting into the bright afternoon sunshine.
Stripped to the waist and lager handed, Ronny and the boys
were treating their audience, an even mix of Monegasgue nationals and heavily armed
riot police, to West London’s own version of the ‘Last night of the prom’s’.
‘I thought you said there was a ban on alcohol son?’ I said
to Ugly John, as we pushed our way politely through the crowds, following
Jogger who was striding resolutely ahead of us.
‘That’s what my mate said,’ replied Ugly John frowning. ‘It
don’t look like it though does it eh son,’ he continued, rubbing his hands and
licking his lips in thirsty anticipation.
‘Where are you taking us?’ said Baby Gap Brian, as we caught
up with Jog-On who had led us out of the precinct and down a narrow road along
which was being driven an assortment of expensive, exotic looking Italian
automobiles. ‘The Condamine,’ replied
Jog-On knowledgeably. ‘It’s the harbour. Worth seeing cos they’ll be preparing
the area for the Monaco Formula 1 Grand Prix which is next month.’
I’m not a big fan of F1, but I suppose down the years I’ve
watched the Monaco GP enough times on TV to allow various parts of the
legendary circuit to indelibly imprint themselves in my subconscious. The
swimming pool, the pedestrian bridge bedecked with adverts for Gauloise
cigarettes, the old fortified town of Monaco-Ville built high on the rock which
looked down on the rest of the Principality, it all looked so familiar now.
I closed my eyes momentarily and imagined the tyre burning
screeches and high pitched engine whines of the cars as they raced past, their
drivers jockeying for pole position along the notoriously treacherous circuit
knowing that victory in this the most glamorous of all F1 events would
guarantee them lasting fame, untold wealth and the amorous advances of scores
of impossibly beautiful women that were drawn to the annual event.
The imaginary sound of F1 was replaced by the very real
sound of the sirens belonging to several police vehicles that sped past us.
‘Fuck me,’ said Ossie, putting his fingers in his ears,
‘that’s loud enough to make anyone think war has just broken out,’ he
continued, as we walked along the red asphalt area adjacent to the marina which
Jogger informed us was where the pits would be housed for the Grand Prix.
‘Maybe war has just broken out,’ said Baby Gap Brian, who
had stopped walking and was now staring out across the harbour, shading his
eyes from the sun and looking for all the world like an old seafarer … or was
it Uncle Albert from Only Fools And Horses.
‘What’s the fucking point of coming all the way out here and
having a row?’ said Ossie, as he pointed at a blue hulled yacht which dwarfed
everything else in the harbour. ‘Look at the size of that thing,’ he continued,
not waiting for a reply to his previous question, ‘I wonder if it’s
Abramovich’s?’
***
As we began to walk up the winding path which led from the
harbour, up the side of the rock and into Monaco-Ville, I thought about what
Ossie had just said. He was right, what was the point? “You do it for the
reputation of the club,” I remembered Del Goss saying years ago when we’d
travelled up to Preston for a glamorous 2nd Division fixture.
Del had instructed everyone to unscrew and steal every
single light-bulb from the carriages of the ‘football special’ we had travelled
to the match on; when we alighted at Preston station our orders were to throw
the light-bulbs on the floor at the feet of the horses on which police
officers, who were to provide us with an escort to Deepdale, were mounted.
It was like a scene from a Wild West movie, horses and
bodies everywhere. Chelsea ‘ran’ Preston that day and which ever way you looked
at it the ‘reputation’ of the club had most definitely been enhanced. A couple
of people got arrested, but that was all. In those days as kids, we dealt with
the police by raising the middle finger of our right hands from a safe distance
and then doing a runner.
If you were unfortunate enough to get arrested, you maintained
the right to remain silence until the opportunity to do a runner presented
itself again and then you ran.
If you ended up in the station, the worst punishment you
would receive would be at the hands of an adult relative who would box your
ears in gratitude for having been dragged away from an evening in front of the
telly.
Today, reputations were not enhanced by going up against the
police. Little in the way of provocation was needed in any country for the
police to march in and crack the heads of those whom they believed to be the
ringleaders of any type of civil disturbance … and believe me, they seem to
really love this aspect of their work.
As we tramped slowly through lush green gardens coloured
with a variety of plants whose names I had no idea of, but whose scents filled
the air with a bouquet of tranquillity, I wondered if the police had tired of
the nationalistic anthems of Ronny Cutlass et al and had exercised unreasonable
force to silence them.
“The reputation of the club”, eh … and where would Del Goss
be right now I wondered? Probably having a few gentle beers with his cronies in
one of the ‘dry’ bars down in the Condamine, telling stories about the old days
… about trips to places like Preston and Blackpool … about kids like me who were
too young and too naive to know any better.
***
Once inside the walled town we walked across the grey cobble
stoned square that edged Prince Rainier’s whitewashed palace and made our way
over to some medieval ramparts that overlooked the western half of the
Principality. The vantage point was superb and afforded us views of both Monte
Carlo with its internationally famous Casino, and Fontvielle an area of 40
Hectares that had recently been reclaimed from the sea and was now home to,
among other things, Stade Louis II home to the Principality’s only professional
football team L’Association Sportive de Monaco FC.
From up here the stadium, which was opened in 1985,
resembled a giant open air opera house. Its verdant pitch which was laid well
above street level and set on top of a multi-purpose sports complex that
apparently incorporated an Olympic sized swimming pool looked like an oversize
roof garden. Three sides of the stadium were covered with the far end open and
capped off by a row of arches which give it a Romanesque appearance.
‘60 million quids worth,’ quipped Jog-On, knowing that we
were all marvelling at the stadium. ‘It took six years to build and can
withstand earthquakes measuring up to 7.5 on the Richter scale,’ he continued
eruditely, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose in the manner
of an elderly professor. ‘Y’see the arches? They allow the sea breeze to
ventilate the stadium during the summer when it gets really hot. That’s why
they have so many world class athletics meetings here.’
‘Fuck me,’ I whispered in Ossie’s ear, ‘this geezer knows a
lot about everything doesn’t he.’ Ossie nodded but said nothing as we waited
for Jog-On to complete our informal education on matters related to AS Monaco
FC.
‘That’s why the cabbie in Nice hated ‘em so much then!’
exclaimed Baby Gap Brian, after Jog-On had told us that the club, which was now
bankrolled by the royal family, was able to attract the cream of managerial and
footballing talent because income tax did not exist in Monaco.
The club had amassed seven French titles since it was
founded in 1924 and its distinctive red and white shirts had been worn by
household names such as Fabien Barthez, Emanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, David
Trezeguet, Lilian Thuram, and Glenn Hoddle.
Both Arsene Wenger and Jean Tigana had enjoyed success as
managers here before fortunes on the pitch waned and the club, without the
lucre provided by competing in Europe and unable to survive on the income
generated by average gates of 8,000, teetered on the brink of oblivion as it
flirted with bankruptcy.
Royal heir apparent, and ever present supporter, Prince
Albert stepped in at the head of a consortium of local businessmen and AS
Monaco FC, who had been relegated briefly to the Second Division for exceeding
the French FA’s limit on debt, were back in business with ex Chelsea midfielder
Didier Deschamps, who had recently taken over as coach, remaining at the helm
of an exciting young side.
Jog-On also told us that the clubs shirt sponsors, a
financial group called Fedcominvest, had initially offered to pay off the Club’s
debts but the deal had been vetoed by the royal family who were concerned about
some of the personnel involved in the Russian based company’s business
dealings.
‘Bleedin Russian rouble billionaires they get fucking
everywhere,’ said Baby
Gap Brian, tutting and shaking his head as we walked back
across the square towards a bar called La Pampa Glaciers, where we’d agreed to
meet Young Dave and the others.
‘Just as well,’ I said, relishing the prospect of getting my
hands on another ice cold beer, ‘otherwise the way things were going we’d have
been worrying about the cost of a return ticket to Plymouth next season rather
than Prague.
***
The waiter placed a large bowl of chips on the table in
front of Big Chris and pointed at his watch. ‘At seex thirtay vee are clo zed …
no more bier, vee also vant to go to
ze game.
‘All right mate, mangetout
… mangetout,’ said Big Chris, grabbing a handful of chips. ‘You’d better bring
us un autre dix bier’s then my son,’ he continued, stuffing the chips into his
mouth and holding up both hands to give further clarification of how many beers
were required.
The waiter nodded and forced a false smile. To him we were
all the same. We were no different to Ronny Cutlass and his cohorts shouting
the odds down in the precinct. As far as he was concerned he was witnessing at
first hand the specifically British culture of binge drinking. However, even
though the concept of drinking to excess baffled him, he was still more than
happy to relieve us of our Euros provided we continued to behave in a
relatively sober manner.
‘Blimey Big Chris I’m impressed,’ said Chicken Plucker,
reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his Marlboro’s. ‘You couldn’t ask
him where the toilet is could you? … I’m bursting.’
‘Oi garçon … son. Ou ‘est le khazi mate ?’ asked Big
Chris, deliberately acting the oaf and keeping us all entertained into the
bargain.
‘Khazi … vot ees zis khazi? Ees eet a how you say … a
tooreest attraction? I don’t know zis khazi.’ The waiter shook his head and
looked around the table hoping that someone would enlighten him.
‘Toilet mate … I need the toilet,’ said Chicken Plucker,
standing up and patting down his pockets in order to determine where he’d put
his cigarette lighter.
‘Ahh ze toilette,’ said the waiter, raising the index finger
of his right hand. ‘Seet down von moment yes … I will get you ze coin for ze
door … ees just around ze corner yes.’
The waiter pointed down the side street onto which La Pampa
Glaciers backed and then scurried back into the bar whilst a relieved looking
Chicken Plucker sat back down in his chair and finally lit up his cigarette. This
was Chicken Plucker’s first away trip this season. He used to be a permanent
fixture on the Chelsea scene, but now work commitments prevented him from
getting to as many games as he’d like to get to.
According to Young Dave, Chicken Plucker was somewhat of a
haute cuisine celebrity these days. His legendary Plucker Sauce, a piccante accompaniment for braised leg of pork, had
been championed on TV by Gary Rhodes and was allegedly soon to be made
available in packet form on the shelves of the nations supermarkets.
Chicken Plucker, christened Andrew by his parents, had held
down a wide variety of jobs before talking his way into the job of saucier at
Young Dave’s restaurant. He’d washed dishes at the Ritz, been a Red Coat at
Butlins and as a five year old been the cute little kid in the mild green Fairy
Liquid adverts.
The monicker Chicken Plucker had been bestowed on him by
Young Dave, in whom he’d confided that the worst job he’d ever had was plucking
chickens on his Auntie May’s farm one school summer holiday. Young Dave didn’t
deal in Christian names, they were for normal people. All his friends had
nicknames, most of which he’d come up with himself, and Andrew was to be no
different.
***
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Young Dave, tossing his mobile
phone onto the table and picking up his beer glass. ‘That was Johan the
woodcutter … he’ll be up here with three tickets in five minutes … he wants a
ton fifty for ‘em.’
‘Who the fuck is Johan the woodcutter?’ said Ugly John,
looking at his watch. ‘There’s only an hour and ten to kick off,’ he continued,
smoothing his hands across his temples.
‘Fuck knows,’ I said,
‘but I bet he used to work for Young Dave.’
‘He’s a bloke that
used to work for me …,’ replied Young Dave, in answer to Ugly John’s question.
‘Don’t tell me he used to be a lumberjack and his names
Johan,’ interrupted Big Chris.
‘Yeah … how d’ya guess that?’
‘Well … er you call him Johan the woodcutter.’
‘That does it,’ I said, scraping my chair back along the
floor and standing up. ‘I’m goin for a top ten hit … this khazi must be pretty
good, Plucker, Baby Gap and Lemon still aint come back yet.’
I walked into the bar to get one of the ‘special’ tokens
required to gain access to the toilet. As the waiter handed me the token I
glanced out of the window and saw Young Dave cuff Big Chris across the top of
the head. He did it in the way a proud father would when quelling an outbreak
of insubordination and insolence amongst his youngest children … and it made me
smile.
***
‘Jeeeesus Christ!’ I exclaimed, as I pushed open the toilet
door and walked into a small recessed alcove in which Baby Gap Brian, Lemon and
Chicken Plucker were bent up double and laughing so hard they were crying.
‘What the fucks going on here then?’
‘It’s the … ha … ha … it’s the kha … ha ha khazi,’ shrieked
Bay Gap Brian, pointing at the door and trying to regain his composure.
‘What about it?’ I said, putting the token in the door lock
mechanism and turning the handle.
‘Ha … ha, it’s a
special khazi mate … you’ll see.’ Baby Gap stood up and wiped the tears
from his eyes and pushed Lemon and Chicken Plucker, who were both still
laughing uncontrollably, out through the main door and into the street.
I opened the door with some trepidation thinking that
perhaps the lads had sabotaged the toilet in some way but everything seemed
normal, apart from the fact that there was a lot of water on the grey flagstone
floor. I sniffed the air and grimaced as the pungent fumes of the chemicals
used to disinfect the toilet irritated my nostrils.
‘Just like any other khazi,’ I thought to myself, as I
dropped the kids off at the pool and watched a large Trapdoor spider make its
way slowly across the floor towards my foot. ‘Maybe that was it … the spiders
eh … nah … what’s funny about that?’
I looked up at the ceiling, at the walls and at the cistern
behind me … nothing. Unless I was about to be devoured by some monster that
lived in the toilet pan, and was currently hiding behind the u-bend, there was
nothing to be suspicious about other than the fact that I could still hear Baby
Gap Brian and Lemon giggling outside in the street. I finished off my business,
sorted myself out and pressed the chrome lever on the side of the toilet which
I assumed would activate the flush mechanism. Wrong! Well sort of. Travelling
around the world has
taught me a few things. One of these being that you should
always expect the unexpected when answering the call of nature.
The thing was though that you wouldn’t necessarily expect to
have to be on your guard when using a public lavatory located across the square
from the Prince’s Palace in one of the richest places on God’s earth. Fair
enough elsewhere. In India I’d often found myself nervously squatting over a
hole in the ground, my modesty concealed by a couple of sheets of rusty
corrugated iron, having to keep my eyes peeled for the hands of thieving
dacoites, scorpions and rats the size of a rugby balls … to say nothing of the
snakes.
‘Jeeesus Christ … What the f f f …’ As I depressed the
chrome lever the toilet thankfully flushed, but as it did so the seat began to
revolve and water began to bubble up over the rim of the stainless steel pan cascading
over the lip and onto the floor.
I pushed the lever again in the hope that this would switch
off this novel and futuristic self cleansing mechanism but this only served to
make matters worse. The toilet seats sedate revolutions began to gather momentum
spraying the water out in a wider arc which encompassed my jeans clad
legs.
‘You wankers ha ha … oops,’ I shouted, laughing and then
checking myself as I opened the toilet door expecting to see my friends but
instead being greeted by the sight of a massively overweight woman dressed in
black leggings and a loose fitting T-shirt across the front of which was
emblazoned the slogan Jesus Saves.
‘Hey sir, you finished with the John now?’ drawled the
woman, in what sounded like a Jerry Hall style Texan accent.
I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the toilet had
once again returned to its static state.‘Yes m’am,’ I replied mimicking her
intonation.
‘Praise the Lord,’ she said, breaking wind loudly as she
pushed past me.
‘He won’t help you love,’ I muttered, as I stepped out into
the street to be greeted by the still laughing Baby Gap Brian.
Baby Gap was all for hanging around to see if the fat
American woman’s faith in God would save her from the terrible fate that lay in
wait for her in the toilet but Young Dave was shouting after us and beckoning
us to return to the bar as his friend Johan had just arrived in some style
astride a pearly white heavily chromed Harley Davidson motorcycle.
‘He looks like that bloke Ponce off the old TV series about
the Californian highway patrol men … er CHIPS … yeah that was it,’ observed
Roger Socks.
‘You mean Ponch,’ said Lemon.
‘Nah Ponce is right … he looks like one of the faggots off
the Village People, look at him,’ said Big Chris, as we watched Johan and Young
Dave engage in an animated discussion which concluded with three match tickets
being exchanged for 450 Euros.
‘Monaco veel fuck your Cockernee asses tonight,’ said Johan,
as he pocketed the money, mounted the Harley and gunned its engine.
‘Nothings gonna fuck my fat arse tonight,’ chortled Big
Chris, as we watched Johan roar away across the square, the revving engine all
but drowning out the shrill female screams that could be heard coming from the
general direction of bar La Pampa Glaciers soon to be world famous toilet.
***
‘Champions League …
we’re havin a laugh … Champions League … we’re havin a laugh.
Young Dave and I were stood on yellow plastic bucket seats
along with the 1400 other Chelsea supporters hemmed into Sector H of Monaco’s
Stade Louis II. The stadium, which had looked impressive as we’d surveyed it
from the giddy heights of Monaco-Ville’s ramparts, felt distinctly odd. It was
full and yet there were less than 18,000 spectators in attendance for this
evenings fixture.
Artificial, that was the adjective I was looking for. If
Milton Keynes were a football stadium it would be Stade Louis II. To me the
evident dislocation between investment and architecture seemed chasmic. In the
past I have been known to indulge in passionate expletive ridden monologues
focussed on the shortcomings of some of the grounds I’ve set foot in however
here, in this ‘state of the art’ complex built to cater for a country whose
population numbered a mere 30,000, words failed me.
If the stadium was artificial then the pre-match atmosphere
generated by the home supporters could at best have been described as
synthetic. The red and white banners of the static Monaco ‘ultras’ gathered in
the flat fronted stand behind the goal opposite us hung limply in the lifeless
but balmy evening air.
It was only when the players took to the field of play that
Monaco’s supporters animated themselves, getting behind their team by rapping
above their heads inflatable plastic red and white tubes which made a grating
noise similar to the sound a ratchet makes.
‘In your Monaco slums
… in your Monaco slums … you root in the dustbins for something to eat … you
find a dead lobster, you think it’s a treat … in your Monaco slums.’
Our chant was not only ironically entertaining but served to
drown out the irritating noise being made by the Monaco supporters. Looking
around the stadium there were pockets of blue dotted sporadically across the
red and white canvass. In the sector adjacent to ours there was a group of
about 100 Chelsea fans un-segregated from the home support but the police, who
were conducting security operations in front of us in an admirably low key
fashion, seemed relatively unconcerned.
Geordie Jase and Lemon had found their way into our pen and
as the seating was unreserved had managed to clamber across to where Young Dave
and I were stood which was directly under the large electronic scoreboard
behind the goal.
Chicken Plucker, prompted by a text message, waved to us
from the bottom corner of the stand to our left which was comprised mainly of
media and hospitality boxes. Ugly John rang me to say that he and Jogger were
safely ensconced in the far end with the Monaco ‘ultras’. Big Chris and Roger
Socks were apparently somewhere in the stand to our right but at that moment,
as kickoff approached, I had no idea where Baby Gap Brian and Ossie had secured
their vantage point.
‘Ranieri’s blue and
white army … Ranieri’s blue and white army.’
***
‘Marco Ambrosio … Marco Ambrosio.’
The stand in keeper turned to acknowledge our chant and was
applauded loudly. Tonight he was playing behind the defensive quartet of
Melchiot, Desailly the captain, Terry and Bridge. In midfield were Parker,
Lampard and the man who seemed to save his best Chelsea performances for this
competition Claude Makalele.
‘Super, super Frank …
super, super Frank … super, super Frank … super Frankie Lampard.’
As we chanted Lampard’s name, Young Dave received a text
from Chicken Plucker saying that he was sat next to Frank Lampard senior and I
finally spotted Ossie and Baby Gap Brian away to our right in the midst of a
group of plastic baton waving Monaco fans.
Gronkjaer, who’d made such an impression when he’d come on
against Arsenal in the 2nd Leg at Highbury, started the game along
with the twin striking partnership of Crespo and Gudjohnsen. Ranieri’s
tinkering options on the substitutes bench comprised of Sullivan, Huth, Geremi,
Joe Cole, Mutu, Hasselbaink and surprisingly Juan Sebastian Veron who had been
plagued by injury and concerns over his fitness for much of the season.
As the game kicked off the Monaco supporters finally found
their voices and got behind their team who responded by immediately testing the
Chelsea defence, with both Evra and Rothen running at Melchiot and Parker down
the left hand side.
‘He looks sharp that Giuly … frighteningly quick,’ said
Young Dave, as we craned our necks to see the action which was mainly taking
place in Chelsea’s half of the pitch.
‘Morientes worries me … oooh … shit … see what I mean,’ I
replied, burying my head in my hands as Giuly crossed to the talented Spaniard
whose shot from the edge of the box was blocked by Desailly.
‘Come on Chelsea …
Come on Chelsea … Come on Chelsea … OH SHIT!’
With barely quarter of an hour gone Monaco opened the
scoring. Melchiot who was being given a torrid time by Rothen brought his
tormentor to the ground with a scything tackle for which he was booked. In the
manner of that most famous of all players to wear a number 25 shirt, Rothen
clipped the free kick across the box, our flat footed defence failed to clear
the ball and the unmarked Prso sent a looping header beyond Ambrosio into the
back of the Chelsea net.
‘Bollocks!’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s been coming aint
it eh.’
‘Chelsea … Chelsea …
Chelsea … Chelsea.’
Momentarily stunned by the goal, the first the team had
conceded on foreign soil in this seasons competition, we were soon in good
voice again and our support galvanised Chelsea who began to press forward with
Makalele and Lampard starting to boss the midfield.
‘We are the famous …
the famous Chelsea.’
Chelsea responded by stepping up another gear.
‘Go on Eidur … go on son,’ I shouted, as the Icelander
latched onto a Scott Parker pass and then seemed to stumble over the ball. ‘Fuck
it … no go on … Hernan … Yessss! … Goal … Fucking brilliant ha ha.’ Eidur
Gudjohnsen had somehow managed to squeeze the ball across the goal mouth to
Hernan Crespo who took one touch before side footing the ball into the net.
Crespo’s celebration of the goal was as good as any I had
seen. He vaulted the pitchside advertising hoardings, sprinted across the
running track and ran towards us with his arms flailing and lank hair trailing
behind him. It reminded me of the way Joe Allon, a Shedite cult hero and one of
many strikers who’d tried and failed to fill Kerry Dixon’s golden boots, had
celebrated scoring his first goal for the club.
‘Hernan Crespo … Hernan Crespo … hello … hello
Hernan Crespo.’
After a shaky start and the concession of an early goal,
Chelsea were on level terms. Crespo had given us a priceless away goal and
suddenly we were all in a party mood.
‘Are you watching …
are you watching … are you watching Arsenal,’ we chanted, hoping that our
voices could be heard by any Arse fans who might be watching back at home.
I could just about see Claudio Ranieri, I couldn’t see his
face but I imagined he’d be smiling right now. You only got to see those close
up emotional images on TV. The day after the Arsenal game I’d read in the paper
how Ranieri had wept tears of joy on the Highbury pitch after Chelsea’s famous
victory.
Amidst all the celebratory pandemonium in the Clock End at
the final whistle in that game, I’d missed out on seeing that … but then where
would I rather have been? Sat in front of the telly watching replays of the
action from every angle whilst listening to old Mr Bojangles himself, Ron
Atkinson, mixing his metaphors with Des Lynam, or right here in the thick of
it, living and breathing every sparkling moment? No contest.
‘We love you Chelsea
we do … we love you Chelsea we do …we love you Chelsea we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.’
Chelsea began to play with more and more confidence. Crespo
should have increased our advantage from a great Lampard cross but instead he
volleyed the ball over the bar.
‘It’s in the bag this lads,’ said Lemon, as we applauded the
players from the pitch at half time.
‘Let’s hope he keeps the same players on the pitch for the
second half eh,’ said Geordie Jase, fingering the small enamel Chelsea lapel
badge that he was sporting proudly on his jacket.
‘Yeah lets eh,’ said Young Dave, offering me a Silk Cut
which I gratefully accepted. ‘Looks like your 3-1 forecasts out of the window
son,’ he continued, winking at me as he passed the cigarette packet to Lemon.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ I replied, raising my eyebrows and
turning my head to look up at the huge electronic scoreboard behind me.
‘If she don’t come …
I’ll tickle her bum with a lump of celery … celery, celery.’
I laughed as I looked up and saw sticks of the green
vegetable go sailing up into the night sky wondering what the Monegasques might
make of this quaint Chelsea tradition. Soup, most probably.
***
‘You are having a fucking laugh aren’t you? What the fuck is
Ranieri playing at?’ said Young Dave, scratching at his forehead as the Chelsea
players emerged from the tunnel to our right with Veron on as a second half
substitute for Jesper Gronkjaer.
‘Dunno son,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders. ‘Their
number 4 did a good job of shutting Gronkjaer down … but Veron’s a different
type of player.’
‘Yeah, he’s different all right,’ said Geordie Jase, ‘he’s
fucking rubbish, that’s what he is man.’
Whilst I thought
Geordie Jase was being a bit hard on the Argentinean playmaker I was prepared
to give Tinkerman the benefit of the doubt. The second half started in much the
same way as the first half had, with Monaco, now attacking the goal in front
us, pushing up and putting Chelsea’s defence under pressure. Twice they almost
retook the lead; firstly when Ambrosio made a spectacular save from a header at
a corner, and secondly when Desailly cleared a Morientes shot off the line with
the keeper beaten.
‘Marcel … Marcel Desailly … Marcel … Marcel
Desailly.’
‘Thank fuck for the Rock eh … he aint lost the magic,’ I
said, slapping Young Dave across the back as our support heaved a huge
collective sigh of relief when the ball was booted up-field. The respite was
only temporary though and Monaco continued their stern examination of Chelsea’s
defence.
‘Great tackle Makalele,’ said Lemon, as the tigerish
midfielder effected a brilliant sliding tackle on Zikos to prevent him crossing
what would have been a dangerous ball across the Chelsea five yard box.
‘Fuck me … that’s dodgy,’ I said, as Zikos stood up from the
tackle and appeared to punch Makalele on the back of the neck.
‘He’s gonna go for that,’ said Young Dave, as we watched
Makalele fall dramatically to the floor.
‘Off … Off … Off,’
we shouted, as the referee brandished the red card at Zikos and then the yellow
at Makalele. The Monaco players and supporters were incensed at the decision.
We just laughed and cheered.
‘I didn’t see it mate, did you?’ I asked the question to
no-one in particular, but the general consensus was that Makalele had
deliberately got Zikos sent off. ‘Oh well … fuck em,’ I said, clapping my hands
together. ‘That’s it now, this should be a piece of piss.’
Chelsea went on the offensive and Deschamps substituted
Monaco’s goalscorer Prso and made his team adopt a more cautious formation. ‘Go
on Eidur … fuck I can’t see … shit, that looked close,’ I said, as Monaco’s
keeper sprinted out of his goal to make a great save.
‘Eidur Gudjohnsen …
Eidur Gudjohnsen … ooooh.’
The chanting of the strikers name broke off as he headed
Veron’s corner fractionally over the bar.
‘Jimmy’s coming on, Claudio’s going for the win lads,’ said
Young Dave, as we looked over to the Chelsea bench and saw Hasselbaink take off
his tracksuit in readiness for action.
‘Who’s he taking off? I asked, trying to see the number on
the fourth officials indicator board.
‘Looks like Scotty Parker dunnit,’ replied Lemon.
‘Yeah, he’s making his way over eh … you’re having a bleedin
giraffe aren’t you!’ I exclaimed, as the fourth official indicated that it was
in fact Mario Melchiot who was making way for Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink.
‘Oh Jimmy, Jimmy …
Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink.’
‘He’s pushed the gamble button,’ said Young Dave, as we
tried to make sense of Ranieri’s decision to move Scott Parker from midfield to
right back which also meant switching Veron from the left to the right flank.
‘We’ve lost our shape,’ said Geordie Jase knowledgably.
‘Look, instead of stretching them wide and taking advantage of the fact their
down to ten men we’re playing 4-3-3 … it’s fucking stupid.’
Geordie Jase was right, even though Hasselbaink had almost
scored twice, Chelsea looked increasingly ragged. Giuly, Monaco’s captain, was
using his electric pace to good effect and exposing Parker’s shortcomings as a
full back and it was no surprise when Ranieri substituted Parker with Huth in
an attempt to shore up the defence.
‘Fuck me someone stop him … get in there Marcel!’ yelled
Young Dave, pointing at Giuly who’d skilfully held off the Chelsea captains
challenge and passed the ball to Morientes who had run into a great position on
the edge of our penalty area.‘For fucks sake … NO!’ Morientes hammered the ball
into the back of the Chelsea net and sent the home support into raptures.
‘That’s fucking bollocks Claudio,’ roared Lemon, as we
watched Ambrosio, who’d had absolutely no chance of making the save, pick the
ball up and lash it angrily up field.
‘Just ten fucking minutes … against ten fucking men …
wankers,’ said Young Dave, his voice ridden with angst.
‘Come on Chelsea …
Come on Chelsea.’
There was still plenty of conviction in our chanting but
unfortunately it wasn’t enough to raise the morale of the team and I sensed
that Didier Deschamps knew this. He sent on Nonda for Giuly and seconds later
Monaco had a 3-1 lead. Maybe Ambrosio could have done better when Nonda stabbed
the ball past him, who knows.
I stared disbelievingly at the scoreboard; which ever way I
looked at it … there was no getting away from the fact that Monaco had mugged
us 3-1. At the final whistle I sat down in my seat and rubbed the palms of my
hands backwards and forwards along my thighs and shook my head as I watched the
players trek disconsolately down the tunnel.
Same old Chelsea, maddeningly unpredictable, we’d thrown it
all away. Claudio Ranieri’s tactics, which two weeks earlier had seen off
Arsenal and earned him column inches of praise from the voracious Fleet Street
football hacks, had been unfathomable. If Peter Kenyon had been sharpening the
axe again over the last couple of weeks then Roman Abramovich may well have
seen enough this evening to be persuaded to deliver the final coup de grace
himself.
Match result
L’Association
Sportive de Monaco FC 3 :: Chelsea FC 1
‘Roman Abramovich … Roman Abramovich.’
We were still waiting for the stewards to open the security
gates to allow us to exit the stadium when Roman Abramovich, flanked by several
burly looking minders, walked past our sector and made his way over to the
players tunnel. He waved to us acknowledging our support but the haunted
expression on his face was that of a man who’s pride had been wounded by the
monstrous deficiency of his teams second half performance.
Five minutes after Mr Abramovich had made his way down the
tunnel. Chelsea’s CEO, Peter Kenyon also walked past our sector but this time the chanting was less
appreciative.
‘Kenyon, Kenyon … you’re a cunt, Kenyon … you’re a
cunt.’
‘It’s gonna take something special for that geezer to win
over the hearts and minds of the Chelsea faithful,’ said Young Dave, as we
shuffled down the steps and made our way dejectedly out of the stadium.
‘Beckham?’ said Geordie Jase, kicking an empty coke can
along the floor.
‘Beckham and Ronaldo,’ I replied, checking my mobile phone
for text messages and wondering what Abramovich and Kenyon might be plotting
next.
***
Several beers and a packet of cigarettes later I’d reached
the ‘what’s the fucking point?’ moment of self pitying gloom. The journey back
from Monaco to Nice had been uneventful and our conversation peppered with
giveaway expletive riddled expressions highlighting our frustration at what we
had witnessed.
Tactically Ranieri had thrown the baby out with the
bathwater. So often criticised for being over cautious and playing to the
Italian, ‘catenaccio’, defensive counter-attacking blueprint which had yielded
a club record number of clean sheets and away victories, Tinkerman had
speculated wildly on being able to return home from Monaco with a victory that
would almost certainly have guaranteed Chelsea’s passage back to Gelsenkirchen.
‘You can’t just blame the gaffer,’ said Baby Gap Brian,
pretending not to notice the palpable charms of waitress who was loitering at
the far edge of our table.
‘Well you can … but the players have to shoulder some of the
responsibility don’t they,’ sighed Ossie, the smile on his face which had been
ever present since we’d entered Le Havane being replaced by a frown.
Ossie had a point. Chelsea’s capitulation had been
spectacular. Whilst I expected Claudio Ranieri to admit liability for the
defeat, I hoped that the players would share the burden of accountability.
‘2-0 … that’ll do it eh,’ continued Ossie, folding his arms
and sitting back in his chair.
‘I reckon we’ll either win 5-0 or it will be a bore draw,’
offered Ugly John, leaning across the table and taking a closer interest in the
discussion.
‘Agreed … yeah I can see that,’ said Baby Gap Brian, tapping
his fingers on the table in time with the Latino music thudding from Le
Havane’s impressive soundsystem.
I watched as girls ebbed and flowed from the bar area to the
dance floor where they would dance the Salsa with frightening proficiency. The
big rich sound had an infectious quality to it, and the rhythms were impossible
to dislodge from the brain. Slowly but surely the depression began to lift.
‘It’s like dancing by numbers innit,’ I remarked, trying to
follow the succession of steps that a Jennifer Lopez lookalike was trading with
a small muscular albino man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ugly John.
The albino, sensing he was being watched, looked over in our
direction and smiled as he weaved his hips and gave ‘J-Lo’ his best moves
leaving me in no doubt that he found our bemused looks profoundly satisfying.
***
STINKERMAN,
proclaimed the Daily Mail’s back-page headline, but I was
too exhausted to contemplate reading a blow by blow account
of how Chelsea’s Champions League train had been derailed by the folly of
Claudio Ranieri. I looked at the glazed expression on Ugly John’s face as he
wrestled with the forces of sleep, trying to keep himself awake until our
flight was called and I wondered if he felt the same way that I did.
I could handle the physical exhaustion and the hollow
hangover headache, I could handle the taunts of the Arsenal supporters always
quick off the mark when it came to revengeful text messages, and I could handle
the glorious unpredictability so synonymous with Chelsea Football Club.
But right now I felt that I, and every other fan who’d paid
out good money to see the game, had been cheated and I couldn’t handle that at
all.
‘Maybe we we’re all a bit hasty giving Eriksson the cold
shoulder,’ said Ugly John, as we made our way through the departure gate.
‘We do need Eriksson …
we do need Eriksson,’ I sang, in a low voice.
‘Ha you fickle bastard ha ha,’ chortled Ugly John.
‘And you’re not?’ I replied, trying to stifle a yawn as we
boarded the plane.
‘Not really, I always said Eriksson was the right man for
the job.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It ain’t bollocks it’s the truth … well almost.’
‘Ranieri’s finished ain’t he … even if we turn the tie
around at the Bridge.’
‘Even if we win the Champions League mate.’
‘Even if he finds life on Mars my son.’
