Already promoted, Chelsea were now closing in on the Division 2 title, which would be the club’s first trophy of any kind since 1971. The next game was away at Man City the next Friday night. It was live on BBC1 and there were concerns this, coupled with the game being on Friday night, might affect the Chelsea travelling support, concerns that were totally unfounded.
Euston early on Friday afternoon was chock full of Chelsea, catching a mix of specials and service trains. Alcohol had been banned from specials since the legendary Bolton 76/77 trip (to be the subject of a later reminiscence all of its own) but in those days alcohol was banned from all trains that might contain football fans and a list of all such dry trains was displayed at mainline stations.
When we got to Manchester Piccadilly about 18.00 they didn’t initially have enough coaches to take us all on to Maine Road so we had to hang round the station for ages before getting to the ground. We had got seats in advance, which turned out to be in the main stand at the very far left of the Chelsea section. Even City fans (e.g. Mickey Francis in ‘The Guvnors’) reckon Chelsea took 7,000 out of a crowd of 21,700 and I reckon it was more like 8-9,000. Truly magnificent support.
Chelsea won comfortably 2-0 (here are the goals and a small pitch invasion) <a class="postlink" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOFeoWjMLBM&feature=related" onclick="window.open(this.href);return false;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOFeoWjM ... re=related</a> and our block was kept in afterwards. This was OK, until we realised the away terraces were emptying and, worse, so were the Chelsea seats further up our stand. For reasons never explained (and I tried asking police and stewards) our block (a couple of hundred at most) was kept in for 20 minutes or so and let out onto the darkening streets of Manchester. It became very clear, very quickly, that whatever escort there was had gone and we were on our own with no idea where we were going. There were City fans milling around and chanting, and the five of us tried to merge in with them. Unfortunately one of our number, Pete, was wearing a Chelsea sweat shirt (bad enough), had a number 3 crop (worse) and walking with a stick after getting injured playing football (worse still).
The police were, predictably, unsympathetic. “Just go up that alley, lads and follow the crowds” was the suggestion of one bright spark PC when asked how we should get to Piccadilly station. That alley was dark and long, and we could guess what (or who) was waiting at the other end. Somehow we managed to lose two of our number (including our limping man in the sweatshirt) while shuffling round outside the ground in the confusion.
After wandering round for about half an hour avoiding alley ways, fretting more and more and wondering how the hell to away from the area safely and get home that night at all, eventually the three of us found a main road and, joyfully, a car park full of Chelsea coaches next to a large pub. We found a coach with empty seats, paid the organiser a fiver each and got on. I recognised a few faces and it was clear some had battled their way back to the coaches and were very hyped up. We were just very relieved to have reached safety. A few beers and things got more relaxed, and I got home about 4am. Hopalong Pete and his sidekick had managed to get a normal bus to Piccadilly and got on a half empty Chelsea special. God only knows how some Chelsea got home that night