uRRRs blogHistory, hernias and sibling rivalry: Chelsea 1 QPR 0 |
Posted: September 24th 2009
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The morning after the night before, and I’m still buzzing, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. Getting into the car after the game, my driver for the night, Chelsea Steve (of whom more later) said “well that wasn’t much of a game, was it?”...which neatly encapsulates the different mindset with which fans of (so-called) big clubs and (so-called) underdogs approach these apparent mismatches thrown up by cup draws.
He saw his side’s expensively assembled reserves labour to an unconvincing victory over a mid-table outfit from the division below, the home fans rarely bothering to raise a cheer or start a chant as they again looked on with disdain at a packed away end relishing its brief moment in the big time – their big time.
I saw my team play with passion, pride, and no little skill...I prayed we could replicate it against Barnsley on Saturday and move up into the Play Off places that our squad showed tonight they are well capable of...which in turn brings thoughts of a return to the big time tantalisingly closer...with nights like last night (big crowds, big grounds, up for it Rs fans...and a decent team to support) only serving to remind us of where we’ve been before, where we might be again...and how that place has changed beyond all recognition in our decade and a bit away.
So that partly explains the buzz, but there are other, more random factors.
Perhaps top of the list is the fact that on Tuesday morning I was having a hernia operation, and on Wednesday evening had still managed to make the 125 mile trip from my East Midlands exile to my excellent seat in row 2 of the Shed Upper...for which thanks must go again to the aforementioned Chelsea Steve. I couldn’t drive, whilst he gave up the luxury of the train he much prefers, knowing I wouldn’t be in a fit state to run around tube stations or up escalators at St.Pancras in an attempt to ensure connections weren’t missed. (Blimey, this is beginning to sound like a latterday West London version of those yawnsome Football Focus features we used to have to endure in the 80s hooligan era about the Merseyside derby...you know the ones, divided households going to the game together, no need for segregation as blue & red happily mingled together at the game blah blah bloody blah...)
Anyway, I decided to leave on the heavily padded post-op dressing for a few extra hours more than the docs had deemed necessary – a bit of extra protection should a fellow R land on top of me celebrating a goal, a Chelsea goon decide to question my allegiance in the Fulham Road...or as the wife somewhat more practically said, in case there’s a bit of an autumnal nip in the air.
As it goes, it gave me no gyp whatsoever. Football 1 Hernia 0.
Another random factor...the father / son bonding thing. I wrote about this at length in the A Kick Up The Rs fanzine a few years back...must dig it out and post here for cyber posterity...but in a nutshell, it’s not easy for a boy who was 2 years old when we were relegated from the Prem to grow up in Nottingham and actively support QPR – but my maverick lad Jack, now 15, has done it, and done it proudly. Not only has he happily been dragged to Mansfield, Hartlepool and Bournemouth, but he has willingly genned up on his Rs history, to the point that the Chelsea game means as much to him as it does to me.
Before the game, we just have time to grab a very quick pint with my mate Julian, with whom I’ve been going to Rangers games for over 30 years. His eldest Ben, 11, is there proudly sporting his hoops. Arguably it’s a bit easier to persuade junior to make the trip to W12 from Epsom than Nottingham...and the 2003-5 Play Off & promotion seasons came at the right time to convince Ben following the Rs could be fun...but Julian has had the unenviable task of fending off Chelsea in-laws only too happy to have a word in Ben’s shell-like about the (ahem) ‘magic’ of a Champions League night at the Bridge.
Neither of our dads supported QPR, so we chose them rather than having them chosen for us. We chose Stan & Gerry, Dave Sexton’s total football, UEFA Cup goal fests and Wembley 82. Jack & Ben had a bedraggled, demoralised QPR foisted upon them, and were sturdy enough characters to opt to give this wounded beast a chance to reveal hidden depths. Nights like tonight are part of their reward...not just the hope, as mentioned earlier, that such nights may soon become regular fixtures...but seeing that the Sky-fuelled ways of a ‘Big 4’ team are not necessarily the beautiful game’s be all and end all, and that much of the beauty lies in the very different paths followed by millions of other fans every week.
So now I think I’m managing to round the circle, and put my finger on the buzz this match has given me. There’s the hernia factor, the dad thing...and there’s my own personal take on the differences between QPR and Chelsea which for me make this an important game
Pre-1968 and post-1996, QPR and Chelsea have operated on different planets. It’s what happened in that 28 year period that has fanned the flames of a rivalry that, though Chelsea fans don’t care to admit it, I believe does exist, as shown by both last night’s game, and the 2008 FA Cup encounter.
In the early 70s, Chelsea were briefly glamorous and successful. In the mid-70s, QPR were briefly glamorous and successful. They won trophies with flair (FA & Cup Winners Cups); we won plaudits with total football (as League runners up and UEFA Cup quarter finalists). Key individuals were pivotal to both sides – Sexton, Hollins, Webb.
Neither club could sustain the success (Arsenal and Tottenham hardly quaking in their boots over their place in the capital pecking order), both enduring spells back in the second tier. QPR arguably had the better of things on the field in the early 80s Venables era (Cup Final, old Div 2 champions and UEFA Cup qualification in successive seasons), whilst Chelsea settled for the dubious honour of having one of the hooligan era’s most notorious firms, routinely taking over Loftus Road on Boxing Day amongst other misdemeanours.
Mid-late 80s saw both clubs safely ensconced in the top flight, and if truth be told the Dixon/Speedie/Nevin era Chelsea threatened silverware more than bald eagle Jim Smith- vintage QPR. However in 1986 Rs fans revelled not only in a Milk Cup quarter final replay win at the Bridge, but also in a 6-0 Easter Monday massacre at Loftus Road that sent Chelsea’s faltering title challenge firmly off the rails, a match made all the more enjoyable by the club finally putting ticketing procedures in place that meant few Chelsea fans managed to infiltrate home areas.
As the Premier League gravy train arrived in the early 90s, Ken Bates was struggling to keep Chelsea on an even keel...whilst the much-maligned Richard Thompson made a better fist of the economics in W12, with Rs fans having to bite their collective lip and accept that despite on field success (5th place and top London club in the inaugural Prem season), we remained a selling club.
Thompson then made the crucial mistake of alienating manager Gerry Francis, whilst Bates finally accepted he had to kiss and make up with his nemesis Matthew Harding to save the Blues. Thompson’s obstinacy saw him forced out of the club, leading to Chris Wright’s disastrous tenure, and a decade in the wilderness; whilst Bates’s rare lack of obstinacy started a chain of events (Hoddle, Gullit & Zola) that paved the way for the Chelsea that Mr. Abramovich chose to buy into a few years later.
I have a number of Chelsea supporting friends...not only Steve, but also including my older brother Patrick, and another exile,Toby, with whom I co-run a u16s football team in which our sons, QPR & Chelsea respectively, happily play side by side. They’re all top blokes, genuine supporters, know their football...and were, in answer to the question routinely asked by away fans, “there when they were shit”.
But despite this, I still cannot find it within my footballing soul to have any positive feelings about the club.
Old Chelsea, the 70s/80s vintage I grew up with, was an intimidating, dilapidated Stamford Bridge, one white elephant stand and the worst away terrace in the League...and a hugely disproportionate number of neo-Nazi thugs.
New Chelsea, Big 4 Global Brand Chelsea, I witnessed again last night...and I can’t buy into that either. Having a few blokes on the side of the pitch waving giant flags and strategically placed banners espousing “JT: captain, leader, legend” and “Super Frankie Lampard, no.8” (oh and let’s slip in an Osgood one to show we do have some history) just doesn’t wash. That’s Sky / Prem plastic football....the bloke in the front row of the West Stand, constantly goading the away end by standing up and grabbing his crotch, that’s Chelsea...that, and John Terry, surely the most unloved England captain ever (I’ll excuse Lampard and admit in a rare moment of objectivity that he was superb last night, and changed the game when he came on).
That’s why I laughed when “JT” slipped on his arse in Moscow, when Iniesta rifled that injury time strike into the top corner.
Arguably, though, Steve, Patrick, Toby and their ilk are having the bigger laugh. I know they all miss elements of old Chelsea (not, I hasten to add, the ne-Nazi bits), but they are happy to embrace new Chelsea for the success and quality of football it brings...much as Man City fans are now doing...and much as I suspect we would if our ultra-rich owners ever manage to deliver (that all hanging on a post-Crashgate thread, of course...).
And so to the car journey home, and Chelsea Steve and I swap tales of Paul Furlong, who had been paraded around the ground at half time as an ex-alumni of both clubs. Steve recalls a couple of minor bit parts played by Furlong in the mid-90s as Chelsea auditioned to be a big club. Jack & I recall something like a dozen crucial, brilliant goals that the 30-something Furlong scored for us in the noughties as he played a pivotal role in dragging us back from the abyss.
There, I think I’ve finally got it, I’ve nailed the psyche of both clubs.
Chelsea have always fancied themselves as big time Charlies, flash Harrys...they’ve flirted with it before (’55, ’70), and thanks to Roman (& Jose) they now seem to be there on a more permanent (albeit sugar daddy-reliant) footing.
QPR...I’m not sure we really want that. I think we quite revel in the underdog / kid brother role. We like punching above our weight and bloodying noses...but we kind of know our place, and deep down, are comfortable with it.
It’s not Newcastle & Sunderland, Burnley & Blackburn, Cardiff & Swansea, Boca & River Plate...but I’m sure even Chelsea fans would admit after last night it’s quite a diverting little soap opera...and much as they long to be hated by Liverpool (who’re too busy hating United), or Arsenal & Spurs (too busy hating each other) or Barcelona (much bigger nation state-type fish to fry), they probably get a smug satisfaction from the ill-feeling we show towards them, much as we do about Brentford’s hatred of us.
So perhaps they would like us to get just a small foothold back in the big time. Abramovich as Fagin...Terry as Bill Sykes... Briatore as the Artful Dodger and Magilton as Oliver...please sir, can we have some more?