Scaring Europe to Death
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 31 Oct 2014
- Messages
- 5,125
Two 1-0 wins at Stamford Bridge, albeit 40 years apart
December 1983: No sense of occasion. no women or kids, no pre match laser show, no tourists, no eye contact, and deafening post-match silence until we’d changed trains at Earls Court, and started to recognise a few familiar faces en route to London Euston.
January 2023: Arrived at 4pm, and drank in a designated “away” pub in Earls Court. At least 10 females on our coach amidst a typically raucous atmosphere where rowdiness threatens, but doesn’t quite, spill over into senseless stupidity.
The younger supporters singing songs about the Kippax, seemingly oblivious to the notion that the club had moved from Maine Road before the vast majority were even born.
The older supporters simply appreciating the irony:
My first City game was a 1-1 draw v Chelsea in April 1971, and I’ve always followed their results from a distance. However, I can’t think of a single English stadium that has changed so much, both in physical appearance, and demographic of the traditional home support.
The Stamford Bridge of 1983 was raw, and intimidating, loyal and proud. I kept my mouth shut, because I was streetwise enough to recognise the safer option.
The new Stamford Bridge is a microcosm of how football has morphed into something totally unrecognizable from the days of Ron Harris and Peter Osgood
The “Shed Wall” now stands as a tourist attraction, ironically behind the away turnstiles, and adjacent to an expensive looking hotel where presumably tourists can empty their wallets whilst sampling champagne and oysters
Did I mention tourists?
To borrow a quote from Colour Sergeant Bourne in Zulu
Thousands of em
December 1983: No sense of occasion. no women or kids, no pre match laser show, no tourists, no eye contact, and deafening post-match silence until we’d changed trains at Earls Court, and started to recognise a few familiar faces en route to London Euston.
January 2023: Arrived at 4pm, and drank in a designated “away” pub in Earls Court. At least 10 females on our coach amidst a typically raucous atmosphere where rowdiness threatens, but doesn’t quite, spill over into senseless stupidity.
The younger supporters singing songs about the Kippax, seemingly oblivious to the notion that the club had moved from Maine Road before the vast majority were even born.
The older supporters simply appreciating the irony:
My first City game was a 1-1 draw v Chelsea in April 1971, and I’ve always followed their results from a distance. However, I can’t think of a single English stadium that has changed so much, both in physical appearance, and demographic of the traditional home support.
The Stamford Bridge of 1983 was raw, and intimidating, loyal and proud. I kept my mouth shut, because I was streetwise enough to recognise the safer option.
The new Stamford Bridge is a microcosm of how football has morphed into something totally unrecognizable from the days of Ron Harris and Peter Osgood
The “Shed Wall” now stands as a tourist attraction, ironically behind the away turnstiles, and adjacent to an expensive looking hotel where presumably tourists can empty their wallets whilst sampling champagne and oysters
Did I mention tourists?
To borrow a quote from Colour Sergeant Bourne in Zulu
Thousands of em
