It’s a glorious, sepia tinged late morning on August Bank
Holiday weekend. I absent-mindedly scroll through Facebook on my phone and all
the talk is of the ongoing Reading Festival, which brings back memories. Times
move on though; it’s younger siblings who have gone this year, rather than me
or any of my friends. Instead, I’m making plans to attend Carnival the next day
as I fumigate on a 345 with windows that don’t open, feeling last night’s
alcohol steam out of my pours.
I step out at Clapham Junction and see that it’s crawling
with geezers with vests and shotter bags and girls with glitter on their cheeks.
They caper their way up the hill to South West Four Festival on the Common,
another August Bank Holiday tradition that has sprung up. It’s this weekend
that brings about the end of the summer, but I don’t really mind. I’m slightly
out of place with lads my age bustling past me to be in prime position for EZ
or Rudimental. Dressed different, on a different wavelength. I don’t mind, because
I’ve got something better to do with my Saturdays again- football’s back.
Considering the lack of practice, the old man and I fell back
into the old routine remarkably easily. The inevitable text had beeped through
the day before- “Jacks tomorrow @ 12?” just as it did every other week at the
start of the calendar year. Of course I agreed. I now fish the phone out my
pocket again and send one back “how are we getting on?” We’re right on
schedule. Soon back in the familiar interior of Jack’s at the Junction for a cooked
breakfast. We both order a Double (two of everything) without looking at the
menu. It triggers the football muscle memory in my brain and I find myself
humming John Terry’s song as we wait.
From there it’s an Overground, one stop over the river to
Imperial Wharf. Push past others who want to stay on to West Brompton, and then
the bemused crowds on the platform who must be wondering what all these
boisterous football faces are doing interrupting their pleasant trip through
Chelsea harbour. The Ram is open again after its six week renovation, which
seems to have consisted of a lick of paint and moving the telly from one corner
of the room to the other. We drink outside anyway, balancing pints of lager on
the windowsills and gazing towards the towers of the World’s End estate. I’d
like to say we converse, but really it’s just a stream of consciousness on my
behalf. Worries about work and gripes and jokes I’ve heard all spilling out, occasionally
punctuated by football chat to bring me back to reality. I’m so glad to have my
dad there to listen to my nonsense, to nod sagely and reassure me from time to
time. Maybe this is the outlet that I’ve been missing these last few months.
The beer disappears rapidly and we leave the pub at the same
time as another group, and numbers swell again as another trainload comes up from the
station. Then turning onto the King’s Road, the crowd grows even more, all the
little tributaries flowing into the main delta toward the ground. The first
sight of Stamford Bridge peeks at us over the railway bridge, little puffs of white
smoke floating over the East Stand. A couple of faces we recognise pop up,
promises of more pints in the Finborough after the game are made and I’m on a
huge high already. All the buzz of football is back, without even stepping foot
into the ground yet.
I love that there are forty-odd thousand unique match day
routines around Chelsea that are undoubtedly as special to you as mine is to
me. They might be tinkered ever so slightly as the weeks progress. We might try
a different pub or a new burger van. The demands of TV will push us to Sunday
afternoons, Monday nights and now Friday nights. I certainly won’t be wearing
shorts to games for much longer, either. The feeling is always there though,
always the same fantastic high. Strolling down the Fulham Road every other
Saturday: it will always be the only place to be.
@JJReid13
