Paul Mason's Match Reports

It is now more or less accepted that Chelsea will never lose their
ability to surprise. On Sunday they really did not have to do all
that much to acheive this. Things just had to go to vaguely to
plan and fringe players just had to play to something approaching
their abilities.

A surprise it was however as most Chelsea fans approaching this
facsimile of Middlesbrough's stadium (sad!) must have been
anticipating something like a three or four goal defeat in this bad
omen laden fixture.

Hearing the teams read out did little to allay fears but it is so
pleasing to report good performances all round. Nothing epitomised
the competence on show more than the debut of Jon Harley.

Most players taking their bow would be happy to do the simple things
well, which he did, but for him to significantly affect the game
brought a smile to all present.

It was an exchange of quality between him and Hughes that won the
game ten minutes before half-time. Hughes took Clarke's difficult
pass in the centre-circle and spun the ball out to Harley on the
left. As he advanced he looked up and curled a fine outswinging cross
to the far post where Hughes, having continued his run, looped a
header across the goalkeeper and into the one square foot of goal
where the ball could not be reached.

Harley has always stood out as a player with more skill and vision
than average and can play in many positions on the left but those who
already consider the product falling off the end of the Chelsea youth
conveyor belt a little short in the brawn department will be
disappointed.

This debut however should not be be allowed to overshadow many other
superior performances. Granville put in a better display
than Le Saux has managed in months although, had the referee
followed the letter of the law, he should have had a very, very early
bath when he was quite harshly judged to have pulled back the
clean through Biano.

Frank Leboeuf was magnifique.

Myers had his best game in eons playing as the right(!) sided marker
in the centre of defence. His tackling was as we know it can be and
he was not over ambitious with his distribution.

Di Matteo and Morris linked play well in the middle inspite of the
potentially disturbing scenario of Steve Clarke playing with
them their too. Di Matteo is a huge fear in games such as this (to me
anyway) but this time he was suitably motivated and put in a display
of more than acceptable standard, topping it with an attempted lob
from near the halfway line that was inches wide.

Stars of the fringe performance however were Hughes and Flo. The
old ball magnet had returned for Hughes and while not kicking that
nasty offside habit of his, he at least managed to challenge
without getting blown up all the time.

Flo caused the all sorts of problems early on. One
characteristic run across the area saw him send Hughes and the
ball back the other way but the shot was blocked. Soon after he got
away from Wanchope and was clean through only to be ridiculously
whistled-up for making their man look daft. Another great turn and
run in the first few minutes after the break set up Hughes but he
blasted several miles over.

The Derby defence did start to get the measure of Flo after that
and he had to resort to swapping wings. In the end he began to
look tired and was replaced.

All these tales of Chelsea attacks should not disguise the fact that
Derby had their moments too. Biano was particularly tricky early on
but faded badly. Wanchope missed getting his head and then his foot
to a loose ball in a dangerous position and a couple of other efforts
went just wide during a first-half spell of pressure.

Just after this this period of play, Hughes retaliated with a lazy
looking shot from far out wide that clipped the top of the crossbar,
Di Matteo having split the defence.

After Chelsea scored, along with the crowd, Derby went very
quiet. It was not until the last twenty minutes or so that they
rallied and brought out a tip over from Kharine from a Wanchope
header after the Chelsea defence had decided to play head tennis in
their own box. Sturridge then shot an inch wide following a goalmouth
scramble.

It was a shame Chelsea's goal so deflated the home support as it had
been good fun engaging them in a running battle of songs up until
then. Our response to 'Have you ever won the league?' was
particularly indignant. It was also a shame one or two had to go and
spoil it by making some Harding references when they realised they
could not win this particular battle of wits(!). Chanting 'Sheep,
Sheep, Sheepshagger' at their ram mascot was another highlight.

It is strange how a club that enjoyed such good all round vocal
support as they did at the Baseball Ground should now have signing
limited to one area but perhaps not quite so strange this area is
right next to the away fans!

Chelsea should have wrapped it up before the end when Hughes almost
repeated his headed success of the first half, this time sending
Petrescu's cross near-post and at the 'keeper. Petrescu himself raced
half the length of the pitch in the final minutes but shot across
goal and wide.

So a mightily pleasing win and one that helps restore some of the
reputation of the Chelsea squad. Derby's style of football, which
allows midfielders time on the ball, must have helped immeasurably.
Leeds will be an entirely different kettle of dirty northern
bastards.

Vicenza (a)......The Five Gentlefolk of Verona

It was definitely a trip of two halves Brian.
For the first period we were all over Verona. We set our stall out
early doors and got in and amongst 'em, gave their bars and
restaurants an early test and dealt with all their sights
quite comfortably.

At half-time we were more than happy with the situation. Everything
had gone to plan, the new purchases were settling in nicely and I
told the lads to just keep doing the simple things well and we would
be laughing.

The opposition had other ideas however and they introduced Vicenza.
Immediately everything tightened up and things fell apart a bit. The
big lads caused all sorts of problems, we were late getting to the
ball and it was impossible to get a clear sight of goal.

At the end of the day it was not quite what we were looking for and
we could certainly have done without all that extra time at the
death. But I couldn't have asked more of the lads and the experience
will have stood us in good stead for the future. Brian.

Before this away trip started there had been a little trepidation as
to exactly what lay ahead. This was nothing to do with any perceived
hooligan threat from either side nor the notorious reputation of the
local constabulary nor even a fear that Chelsea may get turned over
by the sophistication of Serie A football.

No. What was on our minds was the fact we were about to put ourselves
at the mercy of the joint organisation skills of Chelsea Football Club
and the Italian nation.

Paradise to begin however!
Opting for the opulent luxury of the overnight stay meant our
presence was not required at Gatwick until the ridiculously late hour
of 7-30am.

Touching down at Verona airport a little after noon, it was not long
before we had our first taste of things to come. The five coaches
arranged to take the party to the hotels had become four, so whilst
most headed off into town, those of us who had taken longest to
negotiate passport control were left kicking our heels in the warm
sunshine next to the waiting coach and hire car intended for the team
and Colin Hutchinson.

After about half-an-hour's wait, our initial hopes that a fleet of
minis would turn up for our journey were dashed as a coach
approached just as the players' plane touched down.

The need to board our transport deprived the team of our advice and a
hearty gee-up but we were able to wave a bit as they emerged from the
terminal. First out were Frank Leboeuf and Dimitri Kharine who, after
loading their bags, sneaked off like naughty schoolboys round the
back of the coach for a crafty cigarette. It was suggested this may
have been to avoid Vialli poncing one off them..."Given up again
Luca? You've been using that one for weeks!"

More chaos reigned at the hotel where the coaches that had departed
long before us had only just arrived due to the driver being unable
to find it and there being too many people for rooms. We were given
ours however and were quickly heading townwards leaving the fun and
games behind.

Being based a healthy walk from the centre gave an early
'crash' course in the local pedestrian crossings and with that
safely negotiated, our path took us to the banks of the River Adage
which meanders through the city. It is a river large in width, clear
in water but shallow in depth if the angler stood right in the middle
all day long is an accurate gauge.

After walking along the bank to the city centre, it was time to get
pizza-ed-up, ice creamed-up and coffeed-up. It was good to see the
Italian's have done away with any pretence of coffee being some sort
of refreshment rather than just a stimulant. The quarter-full thimble
of heavily distilled black syrup that arrived was not the most easily
palatable concoction ever created but it certainly sets you up nicely
for an afternoon of pounding the streets. You do wonder why they do
not simply serve up a syringe with saturated caffeine solution in it.

With the shops by now enjoying a siesta-like break, 'doing' the
sights seemed the obvious option. For a relatively small place,
Verona's two major attractions are both rather comment-worthy, if for
vastly different reasons.

The numerous parties of schoolkids assembled outside signalled quite
clearly the entrance to Juliet's House. With all disbelief suspended
for a while, you can stand in that small courtyard, looking up at
that balcony and almost feel you are there at the very moment Romeo
uttered those immortal words...
"Here Juliet, who the hell has plastered graffiti all over your
house?"

The graffitti level is quite astonishing. Every single square inch of
wall within reach is covered with hearts proclaiming someone's love
4 someone. The one reading 'Ned 4 Pamela Anderson' shows
even media stars have been there and followed the ritual. No 'CFC 4
Ever' was present...yet!

It was pretty hard not to suspect the place was just a convenient
courtyard and balcony in which to locate the semi-mythical tale
and the whole affair did rather smell of tourist trap. I hate to
imagine what lurked within the souvenir shop.

Ten minutes walk away, via a sunken Roman mini-roundabout, lay a
substantially more impressive spectacle. The centre point of the
main pedestrianised square is the remains of the Roman Arena. The
third largest in the world, it is still largely intact apart from an
outer wall which now only boast four arches, the rest having fallen
in an earthquake (may explain the main square!), and is still a venue
for cultural events.

It is only when you go inside and climb to the very top of the seats
that you begin to appreciate the enormity of it. It supposedly held
20,000 people to witness gladiatorial combat and even mock naval
battles and sitting there imagining this, I could not help but
wonder why the Romans could produce such an arena 2,000 years ago
whilst Southampton, in this century, could only manage The Dell.

The gentle musical serenading of 'Vialli, Vialli' down below from
outside one of the square-side bars led to a short exercise in Roman
chanting within the arena.

'Can we eat you every week?'
Can you hear the Christians sing?'
'Home in a lion, you're going home in a lion.'
'Stamford's gonna get you.'
'Where's your left arm gone.'
'Run from Attila'

...is a mere sample from a wide repetoire we performed.

The Arena was a magnificent spectacle and well worth
every lira of the 6,000 entry charge. Reliable information has it
that live performances there are something to behold and this is
certainly believable. The advertised 300 pound charge for use of
the toilet did seem a little steep however.

As evening fell, the bars called and not wishing to miss out on the
chance to experience some real Italian culture, finding one showing
the Juventus game and packed with fervently supporting locals seemed
a must. This proved to be a little trickier than anticipated. For a
start, no televisions were to be seen in any of the central
hostelries. When enquires were made we were told that no-one in
Verona cared about the game and we were unlikely to find anywhere
showing it. This still seemed unlikely but after even resorting to
exploring the Arsenal district of the town, nowhere had been found.
At this point it was decided to swallow a massive dose of pride and
forget what has previously been said in these reports and head
off in search of an Irish Pub.

The road in which we had expected to find one bore no Guinness signs
but a bit further along, at last, we found an Italian version with a
flickering screen in the corner. It was not as full as we had hoped
but watching the game in there was still an interesting experience.

Comparisons stating that Juve are the Manchester United of Italy can
now be taken as fact. No longer will I have any time for the theory
that wanting to see winners fail and not getting behind your
country's club sides in Europe is a peculiarly English thing.
Every single person in that bar wanted Monaco to win and were
cheering them on the whole way. I almost wished Juventus had been
playing Man Utd just for the irony of them all shouting for the
English team and us all willing on the Italians.

In true Southern European style, a late meal was taken before
retiring. Funny how English translations of dish names on menus never
sound quite as glamorous as the original. One of our parties choice
of 'Horse Meat Stew with Cornmeal Mush and Green Potato Dumplings'
really had the saliva flowing.

As various walking hangovers started to appear in the hotel lobby the
next morning, tales started to emerge of what had occurred in other
parts of the town the previous evening. Apparently one Kenneth William
Bates and his consort, both of whom had been in Verona all week,
turned up in the main square and bought huge rounds of drinks for all
present! Not content with that Ken then climbed aboard a convenient
table and joined in the communal singing. When it was enquired as to
his identity by some foreigners he proudly proclaimed 'Il
Presidente'.

Reports also arrived from some who had journeyed to Vicenza that they
were selling tickets to any Chelsea fan who turned up at the rate of
four per go. What a surprise!

Having covered a large proportion of Verona's vias the previous day
and not being attracted to the four hour (!) organised coach trip,
all that really remained were the shops and the bars.

For those whose tastes favoured the latter, the shops seemed to almost
entirely consist of smart designer boutiques - perhaps not all that
surprising - and Ruth Harding was to be spotted taking an interest in
these during the course of the day.

The one respite from this unremitting chic was a small market
specialising in tourist tack, cheap rip-offs of Italian club football
shirts (the sort you dare not wash) and a range of footie scarfs. You
maybe a little surprised to learn that the only English club on
display, sitting proudly between a PSG and Sampdoria models, was a
Man City specimen of 1950's vintage.

While some members of our party entertained themselves in these
trivial pursuits, it was time for those not so interested to
demonstrate the futility of the blanket alcohol ban in Vicenza by
retiring to the main square and sampling the unfeasibly large beers
on offer (1 litre plus).

The fact that the day trippers were never brought to Verona (as we
were later to hear, they were probably still at Gatwick at that
moment!) and that independent travellers had no real reason to go
there in the first place meant the pre-game atmosphere was rather
less intense than on previous trips. A fair few had still congregated
by the afternoon to be entertained by a lone accordion player and
Chelsea's very own Romeo who was insistent on running up to and sweet
talking any Italian female passing who took his fancy. That most of
them were accompanied by their mothers did not seem to put him off
and some even returned for a second helping of his charm.

Like the good little girls and boys we are, everyone was back at the
hotel to board the coaches to Vicenza at 5-30 and we eventually
departed at 6-00. Please note (and this is important!) this was two
and three-quarter hours before kick- off.

The early part of the twenty or so mile journey passed without
incident until an intersection between Autostradas appeared on the
horizon. It was here we were to have our first encounter with the
Carabinieri.

As we approached, the sky took on a bright blue, flashing appearance
and the sheer number of swarming, blue-helmeted ants soon became
apparent. Our coach pulled over in close proximity to a police van
complete with a rifle-bearing legionnarie protruding through the
roof.

We waited for some considerable time at this stop observing the
biggest police overtime scam in history, the only respite being when
an officer of the law considerately came aboard to check that the
Chelsea stewards had not overlooked giving any of us match tickets. I
had some how managed to be given the ticket with serial number 00001
which I proudly showed him. He seemed rather less impressed by this
than I was.

We continued our journey but now with a heavy police escort and the
pace was torturous. On entering Vicenza the floodlights were soon
visible but as we drove on they appeared to get no nearer. It was
quite some time before it was noticed that some of the houses, bars
and army camps we were passing were starting to look rather familiar.
As we completed lap two, anxious glances were aimed in the direction
of wrist watches and aware of the search policy that was likely to be
implemented, it began to dawn that we were on course to miss kick-off.

We had been given prior warning as to the search and confiscate regime
in operation and everyone had already rid themselves of their belts
(we'll be running round Vicenza with our trousers falling down),
coins, fireworks, umbrellas and CS gas canisters. Cameras and
Camcorders were also banned and I shall leave you to form your own
hypotheses for the reason behind this - I am sure you will be no less
cynical than us.

Inspite of most by now being 'clean' it took the expected age to get
past the screening - the customary euro-regulation one-entrance-only
(next to a window still selling tickets!!) did not help - and not
only was kick-off missed but also the first fifteen minutes of the
match.

Maybe someone can come up with a plausible explanation for this
brain-dead policing. All I can say is it was a brilliant exercise in
turning a by-and-large good natured and patient crowd into an angry,
abusive crush as the first cheers and whistles emanated from within
the stadium.

If the whole delay had not been pre-mediated, as the senior police
officer pleaded when we remonstrated with him after the game ("It was
nothing we could help." - Yeah, not much!), then it was a monumental
organisational cock-up.

By the time we reached the cage in the corner set aside for Chelsea
fans, only the bottom couple of steps of the terrace were free
meaning what remained of the game had to be viewed through a
seriously substantial fence and the gaps between various union flags,
crosses of St. George and bright blue visored helmets.

"Right, whose playing? Shit! they've just scored."
That's exactly how it happened and what a strange looking goal it was
from our strange looking angle. When the player shot it seemed to
take twice as long for the goal to be acknowledged as we were
expecting. Things just kept getting better!

The two-and-three quarter hour, twenty mile journey to the ground
meant that by now I required the toilet.

In order to get there I had to endure what was probably the second
most intimidating experience of my life. On turning the corner into
the tunnel area where the toilets were situated, I was faced with a
solid wall of (and I am not exaggerating here) about two hundred riot
police, ten deep, all carrying big batons or rifles.

I pushed my way through trying to look as submissive as possible
muttering "Va fa' culo" and "Cazzone" which believe are Italian for
"Excuse me" and "Sorry" as I went.

The first most intimidating experience of my life was when I had to
make my back! As I repeated the process, tapping them on
the shoulders etc. as I went, I was just so glad I was relatively
sober!!

Well I suppose you are expecting some sort of match report from me.
Even if you have only seen the briefest of highlights then you have
probably got as good an idea of what went on as I do. Suffice to say
that even with our view it was still plainly obvious it was a poor
Chelsea display against not overly impressive opposition and Eddie
Newton still stood out as playing like a new-born foal.

The Chelsea contingent was very muted and an air of being mightily
pissed-off pervaded throughout. Those who had been in our convoy
obviously had good cause for this although our enforced lateness had
meant we avoided the downpour but we were unaware at the time that
the day trippers had equal cause for discontentment. The early goal
conceded had hardly helped and nor did the heavy presence of my
friends in the carabinieri who had now moved themselves down in front
of us making it plainly obvious that if there were any misdemeanours
we would not stand a chance.

Chelsea were attacking towards us in the first-half and consequently
most of the play was down the other end. The first significant action
since our entry, apart from a couple of ludicrously wayward
Clarke passes, were two bookings in rapid succession. The first was
received by Leboeuf who was in one of his moods for theatrical
remonstrations all night. This was met with (erroneous) murmurs of
suspension for the second leg throughout the crowd. The second
booking was dished out to Di Matteo following a spot of acrobatics
from a Vicenza player. This was met with murmurs of Poyet for the
second leg throughout the crowd.

Boy could those Italians dive! This was something we did have a clear
view of and didn't that referee fall for it? Given that some of our
team are not exact amateurs at this particular art it made you wonder
why they did not play up to it a bit more themselves.

The only real threat Chelsea made in the first-half, apart from a
couple of unimpressive corners, was a Zola cross which Duberry, if
anything, managed to clear! The goal apart, Vicenza had managed
little at the other end although they were clearly the more composed
side.

By half-time I was in complete agony. A few weeks ago a friend had
given me a Zola thingy you put on top of your pencil which had come
from a cereal packet and I had put it in my pocket. The day after,
the genuine article showed his first signs of a return to form and I
have not dared take it out of my pocket ever since. Before entering
the ground I had obviously not wanted to leave it behind but I was
certain it would be confiscated if found in my pocket (as it was I
had two pens taken off me - what was I going to do, autograph
them to death?!) so I had stuffed it into my shoe. By now, it had
worked itself right under the ball of my foot. The suffering I go
through for that team!

The Vicenza fans had been vocal throughout, accompanied by a brass
band, but as the teams came out for the second half, one of the most
bizarre musical events ever witnessed in a football ground took
place. A 'Never Walk Alone' style scarf display was fair enough, but
to the accompaniment of Johnny Mathis 1976 Christmas No. 1 'When a
Child is Born' ??!!
It made Bruges' swaying oompah singalong sound like 'We are
Millwall'.

The second half was a slight improvement in that Chelsea did have a
couple of chances but likewise Vicenza threatened more themselves. One
of their forwards seemed to have ample pace and got behind Duberry in