Take your seats please, you're here by royal appointment

© Simon Poulter 2018

I may have mentioned on this blog once or twice that I lived abroad for 17 years, and in that time I managed to maintain a season ticket at Stamford Bridge, albeit an arrangement which meant that Chelsea home games were restricted to weekend fixtures and the occasional bank holiday. In fact, over the course of those 17 years I chalked up just a single midweek match - a crucial fixture with Tottenham (well, usually, they are) that my boss at the time - who also happened to be a Chelsea season ticket holder - and I contrived we had to be at. Somehow “an urgent meeting in London” was convened.

Returning to London, I’ve been reacquainted with the rituals of the midweek fixture: leaving the office at just the right time, sans briefcase; shoving the Evening Standard into the exterior pocket of a coat; making do with a poor quality burger and a pint of Guinness for an evening meal; and at the actual stadium, adopting a wry smile at the site of young herberts wearing their best workplace suits and ties, instead of the yobwear they’d normally be in on a Saturday afternoon.

Most midweek games I’ve attended since being back in the UK have been for sundry cup ties, plus the occasional league game, but the visit by Atlético Madrid in the Champions League in December (I had to miss the October home time with Roma) whet the appetite for a brand new experience: European football. This may sound naive, given that, save for last season, Chelsea have played in Europe consistently over the last decade or so. But when I moved abroad in 1999 Chelsea had yet to commence the Abramovich-funded ascendancy that put them into the so-called European elite. 19 years ago, though, things were certainly on the up: FA Cup victory in 1997 and the arrival of European superstars like Ruud Gullitt, Gianfranco Zola and Gianluca Vialli were some indication of improvements, which is why I’d taken the plunge and bought a season ticket to begin with. But apart from a breathless foray into the Cup Winners' Cup (and a memorable away trip to Bruges) the idea of Chelsea playing the true royalty of Europe seemed beyond reality. The idea of Chelsea actually winning something seemed even more remote.

In my lifetime Chelsea had only won one major European title, the Cup Winners' Cup in 1971 (beating Real Madrid), before a period of financial instability and near bankruptcy in the late 70s and 80s, pinballing around the old First and Second Divisions. It’s why, when away fans sing "Where were you when you were shit?!" at Stamford Bridge, I always reply, "Here." The Cup Winners' Cup victory in 1998 - in which Zola came off the bench to score against VfB Stuttgart - still felt like an aberration. The Premier League victory in 2004 - 50 years since the club’s previous league title - felt overdue. Arrogant as it sounds, we've not looked back, domestically. But the European adventure has - and still - feels like something different.

The ‘Cup with the big ears’ has always had a special appeal. When Chelsea qualified for the Champions League for the first time in 1999, progressing to the quarter-finals to meet Barcelona (beating them 3–1 at Stamford Bridge only to be demolished 5-1 two weeks later) the notion of Chelsea playing the European elite was still somewhat unreal. It was only four years later, with the arrival of Roman Abramovich’s roubles, that it started to feel like the new normal. Over the first decade of Abramovich’s patronage, Chelsea were consistent qualifiers, even coming close to winning the thing. Who can forget the heartache of John Terry’s penalty slip against Manchester United in the Final held in Moscow’s Luzhniki Stadium in 2008. And the next season they were back, going as far as the semi-final where they met Barcelona again, drawing 0-0 in the first leg at Camp Nou, and then controversially conceding an equaliser at Stamford Bridge in the 94th minute of the second leg. Barça figured again in the unlikely run-in to Chelsea winning the Champions League in 2012, with another nervy semi-final in which, in the second leg, John Terry was sent off and the much-maligned Fernando Torres scored in injury time in the Catalan capital. By that stage, Chelsea were unbeaten in their previous four matches at Camp Nou, having drawn all of them, and Lionel Messi had failed to score against Chelsea in eight matches, the most games he had played against a single opponent without a goal - a record that still stands.

Which, then, brings me to tonight’s Round Of 16 first leg encounter at Stamford Bridge. Chelsea haven’t had a bad record against Barça, and some of it has been more overshadowed by refereeing controversy than football. But, like handling wild animals, nothing but the utmost respect must be applied. Not for nothing is Luis Valverde’s side where they are in La Liga, with - ominously - Messi on 27 goals in all competitions this season, 20 of which in the Spanish league where Barça currently have a seven-point league. Chelsea, on the other hand are…well…”recovering” from a disastrous January beset by defeats, injuries, suspensions and a manager in open conflict with his board over squad depth and the lack of transfer window signings. Psychologically, Conte has correctly played the underdog card ahead of tonight for his team - what else can you do against this opposition? - but there is still a concern that against a powerful and resurgent Barcelona, Chelsea’s noted defensive weaknesses and profligacy in front of goal will hurt them, regardless of how stable they are again after a well-earned break and something of a return to form.

Whatever the outcome (and I know I’m steeling myself for disappointment here), tonight’s experience will be like little else in football. To be seeing FC Barcelona in the flesh will be something to revere. I just hope it won’t be something to regret.

Sometimes the basics are the best

“There’s only one place I’ll go on a regular basis: Spain. Now Spain is lovely. Because we turned up in the mid-70s and we conquered the Spanish. We said ‘We like it here, but we want a couple of changes. Because there’s no bingo in the evening, and we’re struggling to get a roast on Sundays.” - Micky Flanagan

So I find myself in Spain for a few days, a half-term break a couple of weeks before I return for the annual telecoms industry shindig in Barcelona. Think of February as Tapas Month - and there’s been plenty of that here in the Valenciana region.

This has been a new experience for me - a) taking a holiday, at all, this close to a trade show but b) a Mediterranean holiday in February. But I’ve liked it. A lot. Staying in Dénia - a small port town halfway along the Med coast between Valencia and Alicante, it has bustle, despite the out-of-season feel. This is, perhaps, in no small part due to the healthy British, German and Dutch expatriate community that keeps the Costa Blanca in business all-year round.

Spain is, for many of us Brits, our first foreign holiday destination, and continues to be an enduring attraction. A record 18 million UK tourists came here last year, benefitting the still less-than-healthy Spanish economy at the expense of countries like Turkey, Egypt and Tunisia, and their bloody brushes with international terrorism. 2018 could be set to be another record-breaking year for British visitors to Spain, with travel companies predicting hotel price rises as high as 10% over 2017 rates, as demand puts a strain on the number of available rooms. However, this might be offset by lower airline prices, as demand forces competition.

All this comes amid a local backlash against tourism, an industry which contributes some 55 billion euros to the Spanish economy, of which 26% - 14 billion euros - comes from the UK alone, the single biggest contributor to the tourist industry. Last year, an anti-tourism movement gained momentum in some of the popular Spanish tourist destinations, with graffiti on walls in Majorca’s capital Palma, as well as Magaluf declaring toasts “go home” and “tourists not welcome”, but in Dénia and its environs, locals could not be any happier to see visitors, especially at this time of the year.

The restaurants are happy for the business, and the cafes of nearby Xàbia welcome the opportunity for holidaymakers and expats alike to soak up the warm, early spring sunshine. All of which comes back to the basic premise of this post: Spain still has everything you want from a Mediterraneon excursion. I’ve been accused before of being unadventurous, but I’m somehow drawn to this part of the world. Perhaps its the southern European way of life, the salads you could eat forever, or the always present bowl of crisps when you order an ice-cold cerveza. Or perhaps its the informality of tapas, the creamy joy of Iberian ham, or the fact that cities like Valencia, despite their age and their economy, manage to combine heritage and modernity with impressive ease. Or, perhaps, it’s the simple fact that sunshine is guaranteed, a delightful infusion of Vitamin D in February. Yep, I’ll take that all day long.

Not a case of if, but when

Picture: Twitter/ChelseaFC

We’re a wacky lot, us football fans. We hold grudges long after they’ve served any meaningful purpose. Just ask Rafa Benitez, who, as Liverpool boss, made a habit of winding up Chelsea supporters...only to become, temporarily, the Chelsea manager (a toxic appointment, if ever there was one, but one which produced the 2013 Europa League title...). Just ask David Elleray, the referee whose pettiness contributed to Chelsea’s 4-0 humiliation to Manchester United in the 1994 FA Cup Final. Just ask Dean Saunders, whose tackle on Chelsea’s Paul Elliott in September 1992 effectively ended the defender’s career. We don't forget.

We football fans cheer and boo for the most capricious reasons. After Chelsea lost 3-0 at home to Bournemouth last Wednesday night, there were a few boos at full time, but these were largely drowned out by a chorus of "Antonio! Antonio!". There wouldn't have been a fan dressed in blue at Stamford Bridge that evening who expects Antonio Conte to be in charge of the club at the start of next season, but the singing made for a slightly odd end to what had, on balance, been a somewhat comic evening, in what is turning out to be a somewhat strange season.

Back in August it was generally accepted that Chelsea's defence of the Premier League title would be fraught with challenges, not least of which, the fact that it's harder to defend a title when you've got rivals like Manchester City and Manchester United hugely outspending you. If nothing else, Conte has conducted a lot of expectation management, reminding anyone who'll listen that Chelsea are (until their Carabao Cup exit to Arsenal) fighting on four fronts, whereas last season they didn't have a European distraction. And, without calling a spade a spade, he hasn't been getting the reinforcements he's wanted.

However, at risk of repeating my post from a couple of Fridays ago, when it seemed like the January transfer window was closing without much satisfaction for Conte, his apparent digs at the Chelsea board have continued, and have been at times none-too subtle. All of which reminds me of the great Stanley Holloway's ode, The Lion And Albert, in which young Albert visits Blackpool Zoo, taking with him "a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle (the finest that Woolworth's could sell)" and promptly sticks it in the ear of "a great big lion called Wallace, whose nose was all covered with scars". "You could see that the lion didn't like it. 'E pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im, and swallered the little lad - 'ole!".

You can probably see where I'm going with this: take José Mourinho, Avram Grant, Luiz Felipe Scolari, Ray Wilkins, Carlo Ancelotti, André Villas-Boas, Roberto Di Matteo and Mourinho (again) for reference. Last week various newspapers reported that Chelsea's patience with Conte was running out, with former Barcelona manager Luis Enrique topping the list of potential replacements. Not that, for once, results are entirely to blame: the team that ran away with the Premier League last season, as well as becoming FA Cup finalists, have, in the last few weeks, recorded 4-0 and 5-0 wins over Brighton and Stoke, respectively, 0-0 results against Leicester, Arsenal and Norwich, and an impressive 3-0 home win over Newcastle in the FA Cup. Not bad results, but the goalless draws and £60 million signing Álvaro Morata's chronic dithering in front of goal (before he suffered a back injury) have added a tone of attrition to an otherwise OK season. Perhaps, then the "Antonio!" chants were more in irony than support.

When Mourinho was breeding "palpable discord" in the first four months of the 2015-16 season, before he was sacked, his mood had a very noticeable effect on the team. Conte hasn't got that bad, but his press conference comments about squad size have sounded like carping. His touchline demeanour on Wednesday night, too, spoke volumes: for two thirds of the game he was his usual self, barking at his players like a distressed seal, but then as the strength of the embarrassment seemed apparent, his shoulders dropped and he cut a somewhat lonesome figure. Forget chanting -  some in the crowd would probably have wanted to put an arm around him.

Conte is, after all, Italian, which means that emotions are not so much worn on the sleeve as engulfing the entire body like a onesie. His post-match press conference on Wednesday and pre-game press conference on Friday brought many of these emotions out in the raw - from defiance over the way Chelsea are, actually, playing, to how he's getting "120%" out of his players (not-so-subtle subtext: 'I'm lacking players'). The club is believed to have cautioned him over these niggles, and yet they continue, suggesting that the relationship may well be at breaking point. If not beyond repair.

Picture: Twitter/ChelseaFC

Tonight's game against Watford could prove crucial. It's unlikely that Chelsea will sack Conte if the result is indifferent, nor that he'll walk out before his contract ends (he's said as much that he wouldn't). But these are tricky days: tonight, Morata will still be out, backup striker Michy Batshuayi has been loaned to Borussia Dortmund (where he scored twice on his debut, just to rub salt into the open wound of Chelsea's goal scoring), new signing Olivier Giroud only joined from Arsenal last Wednesday, and the other great hope, Ross Barkley (who also signed in the January window), has joined a lengthening list of hamstring injuries.

On the one hand, you can't blame Conte for making pointed statements that he is "exploiting this squad at the maximum level", but on the other hand, while some of his personal transfer targets haven't materialised, the club has hardly been profligate when it comes to bringing fresh blood in.

Fatigue was, clearly, a factor last Wednesday evening at Stamford Bridge. Even substitutes, like Cesc Fàbregas, looked sluggish and jaded. Bournemouth took their chances well, but they were playing a team that had played 40 games already this season, and it showed. On this, we fans have sympathy. We even joke, as we walk up the umpteen steps to reach our seats in the Upper East Stand at Stamford Bridge, that we seem to have been doing it a lot in recent weeks. And we're not highly trained athletes running around Cobham most days of the week. Something has to give, and I doubt (though I may not be sure...) it will be my hamstring. There's some truth in that fable of young Albert and Wallace...

Roxy Music: super, and deluxe

As Paul Sinclair's excellent Super Deluxe Edition website chronicles, there is a clear market for consumers of a certain age, a certain gender, a certain wealth bracket and to whom record companies command a certain tendency to peddle “luxuriant”, “extravagant” and “sumptuous” box set re-releases of classic albums.

Barely a back catalogue is immune to repackaging, but this does often afford a welcome opportunity to delve into vintage records loaded with extras, from previously unreleased material to replicas of the original publicity collateral. My friend Steven Wilson has been involved in many of these projects, applying his mastery of 5.1 Surround Sound to remix albums by the likes of King Crimson, Yes, Tears For Fears and XTC, carefully treading the delicate balance between not messing with the original form, and discovering new dimensions of it for curious ears.

Wilson's skills pop up on today's fulsome re-release of Roxy Music, the first of eight studio albums by a band which, long before it bowed out with the louche 80s gloss of Avalon, should rightfully be regarded as responsible for some of the most interesting art rock of the prior decade...arguably, up there with Bowie. Indeed, this album - originally released on June 16, 1972, the same day as The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars - can be compared with The Dame at his most musically extravagant. No wonder, then, that Peter Gabriel somewhat conflated the two when he left Genesis in 1975, vowing to either "Do a Bowie", "Do a Ferry" or "Put a Furry Boa around my neck and hang myself with it" - thus encapsulating the art rock era into one pithy, pre-punk quote (punk, incidentally, was often thought to set out to kill progressive rock: not so, claim many - it was to counter the outré bombast of bands like Roxy Music).

Roxy Music and Bowie certainly trod common ground in the early 1970s, and indeed If There Is Something on this album finds Bryan Ferry even sounding like his contemporary. But let's end that comparison lark right there. Because this was 1972, far enough into the 70s to be mainstream, but not so far out of the 60s to be whatever it wanted to be. Thus, Roxy Music is everything - art rock, space rock, prog rock, you-name-it-rock. The band themselves had little sense that the album would reach a mainstream audience. “We thought art students; people like us; limited interest; underground. Coming overground was … interesting,” Bryan Ferry recently told The Guardian. “Thinking about the songs, some of them are collage-like, with different sounds and moods within them – they will change abruptly into something else. For instance, Sea Breezes is a slow song, and suddenly moves into this angular, quite opposite mood. I found that interesting, and this band was perfect for that; they were game for anything. We were constantly fiddling around, changing things. I was still trying to find my voice. I [now] think sometimes I’m singing too high, or I should have had another go at that.”

Perhaps if there's one thing that makes the initial mixed reaction to Roxy Music understandable is that it is so varied. It is glam without the somewhat conventional rock and roll influences that glam acts like The Sweet and T-Rex brought to bear; there are the hints of prog rock, with Brian Eno's at times bonkers synth effects (later credited as 'Enossification' when he loaned himself to Genesis for a track on The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway). And yet there is the deliberately ragged, too, such as The Bob, a collage about World War 2 which echoes The Doors and The Velvet Underground, with mad changes of time signature and Andy Mackay's signature saxophone thrown into the soup. And there is romanticism, too, such as Chance Meeting, inspired by Brief Encounter and with Ferry at his Weimar lounge act best.

Some critics tried to cast Roxy Music as a pastiche act when their debut appeared. And while a track like Would You Believe goes down the well-trodden path of straight-forward rock-and-roll (and is a storming slice of boogie, to boot), and Bitters End delves into barbershop camp, this is an album which stands on its merits, almost 46 years since it was recorded. Even with sonic parallels to Bowie, in particular, but other contemporaries, Roxy Music is, today, a terrific record to listen to.

Which is why the super deluxe package released today generates intense curiosity. For example, Virginia Plain - the hit single of the summer of 1972 - is restored to the line-up of an album it was oddly absent from when the UK version came out in June that year. And, yet, if your only knowledge of Roxy Music is through such a rip-roaring glam single, it fits the album's entire canon perfectly. Perhaps this might explain the album's somewhat odd birth, in which Island Records boss Chris Blackwell and his A&R chief, Muff Winwood (brother of Steve) needed convincing by junior A&R man Tim Clark (who now manages Robbie Williams). Indeed, Blackwell and Winwood had grave misgivings about Roxy Music themselves, let alone an album with fronted by Ferry and his odd vibrato croon, Brian Eno's synth wigouts and Andy Mackay's saxophone darting about the place.

Eight years in the making, this isn't the cheapest super deluxe package (£129 on Amazon - somewhat ridiculous for three audio CDs, a DVD and a book), but the package is certainly "sumptuous", to use that superlative. Musically, it's a fascinating compendium of a band that would become one of the 70s' most influential, still finding their form, but doing so with such breathtaking confidence, plus a degree of swagger, that it makes for a compelling few hours of your listening life. The musical extras do, actually, add much: as with most other bands' BBC Sessions, the Roxy disc is superbly recorded, revealing details in live performances that the technology of the time rarely captured on bootlegs and the live albums of their day. And Steven Wilson's remixes - as always with his work - opens up aural dimensions to an album that was always so theatrical in its soundscape (the perfect medium, then, for him to work with). There is also DVD of Roxy Music at Le Bataclan in Paris in November 1972, providing a glimpse of a band which, I think, rarely gets a look in as one of the era's great live acts. Even the glossy, 136-page book put together by Ferry and former Melody Maker journalist Richard Williams (an enthusiastic champion of the band) is also included.

If nothing else, the re-release of Roxy Music prompts a timely re-evaluation of the band itself. Bryan Ferry's departure into musical slickness in the 1980s and, latterly, political interests at odds with the mainstream music industry sentiment (his support of The Countryside Alliance, his apparent affliction with the Conservatives, and a personal reputation which, Chris Difford's autobiography Some Fantastic Place reveals is less than glowing - Difford worked as Ferry's driver during a lean period...) has somewhat airbrushed him from the pantheon of influential artists in the rich, creativity of the classic rock era. The components of this package place Ferry back into the mix, combining his undoubted persona with Eno's inventiveness, and a band generally driving together with full force. It ain't cheap, but this has been a thoroughly rewarding experience.