big game

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, as I had settled into an uncomfortable upright position in front of my music stand and was trying, for the first time in months, to tickle tunes from my recorder, strange dissonances insinuated themselves through the dilapidated windows of my living room. It wasn't the number 28 bus picking up passengers, its 9-liter engine rumbling in anger at the delay. There is nothing insinuating about that sound, which grabs my windows and rattles them with resonance. What I heard was more subtle – and a bit disconcerting. It sounded vaguely like singing.

But who would sing on North End Road? I put my instrument down and went to the window - and stared at a heaving sea of blue, masses of middle-aged men, most with shorn heads and the kind of body – bulky and bloated – that years of merciless ale consumption grant, marching south in unison. Their rhythmic chanting turned the street into a surrogate stadium as they, Chelsea FC fans without fail, worked themselves into a frenzy before watching the game.

What I saw surprised me, not the very fact but the extent. I had been reminded of the Champions League final that would take place that evening and was the cause of the commotion by a flyer the Council has sent me a few days earlier. In it, residents living near Stamford Bridge were advised that a victory parade would widely disrupt traffic on Sunday in the event that Chelsea win the game the night before. I had been warned.

And yet, the crowds surprised me. After all, the game was played in Munich, not in London. The stadium down the road was closed for the night; there was no public viewing. What was everyone doing here? Chelsea is the epitome of a soulless oligarch's toy, driven by virtually unlimited quantities of money and vanity, a vehicle to mop up its owner's excess millions rather than a club with tradition and concerns for loyal fans. How could anyone identify? To my astonishment, the fans were flocking to the area. Imbued with expectation, a spirit of community and hope, they were coming to watch the game in pubs within shouting distance of their home ground.

From my window I could see that The Goose, an old favorite with cheap beer and elderly regulars, was filled to capacity already. Two dozen punters cued outside in the hope that those inside would get bored and make space for them. The crowd was more numerous and more excited than during the last World Cup, even when England played. I went out to see how things were even closer to the stadium.

There are about a dozen pubs between my flat and Stamford Bridge, a half-mile walk. All of them were full. All of them had spill-over lined up outside. By the Fulham Broadway tube station, police had their hands full already. People started dancing in the street when they weren't looking. The mood was of giddy anticipation. Chelsea had never won the Champions League before, nor its precursor, the European Cup. But they had kicked out Barcelona, and now everything seemed possible.

Watching the game didn't seem easily possible. I started walking away from the epicenter but had to stray far. There were more pubs with blue crowds by their doors. The Wheatsheaf appeared quieter but charged 10 quid on the door. Dark blinds over its windows ensured that no one could watch from outside. My hope at this point was The Fest, a Bavarian-themed beerhouse and, Chelsea played Bayern, natural gathering of enemy forces.

I counted myself among the enemies. While I detest Bayern for their money-driven self-importance, I detest Chelsea 100 time more, for their money-driven self-importance is 100 times worse. So while I didn't care who won and I wasn't emotionally involved in any way, I wanted Bayern to win. But the message at the door, convincingly conveyed by no fewer than four bulky bouncers, was, "Sorry, mate, we're fully booked". I had to march on.

A quarter hour later I arrived at Putney Bridge where the strain on the public infrastructure – and in particular the public houses – had eased noticeably. Just as the game started, I settled by the bar of a reclaimed assembly hall with loads of character but insufficient quantities of beer (They ran dry in the middle of the second half.) and started watching.