A Deeper Shade of Blue: Eddie McCreadie's Blue and White Army and a False Dawn

By Neil Fitzsimon

A Deeper Shade of Blue charts the tumultuous years of Chelsea Football Club between 1972 and 1977 when the glittering cup-winning side of the early 70s was broken up, and stars such as Peter Osgood and Alan Hudson departed, along with manager Dave Sexton. It was an era that saw Chelsea relegated to the Second Division while massive debts pushed them to the brink of extinction. But the Blues bounced back with the birth of Eddie McCreadie's brash, young and exciting side, led by the precociously talented Ray 'Butch' Wilkins. McCreadie guided the club back to the First Division only to leave acrimoniously in bizarre circumstances - a golden opportunity spurned by the club's owners. A Deeper Shade of Blue is the eagerly awaited sequel to Neil Fitzsimon's Rhapsody in Blue. It reveals how the author made the difficult transition from adolescence to adulthood as a Chelsea supporter during those turbulent times. We discover how the innocence of youth was replaced by the harsh experience of growing up in 1970s England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pitch Publishing Ltd
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781785319280

Book preview

Introduction

THE LATE, great American singer-songwriter, Jim Croce, once wrote, ‘If I could put time in a bottle.’ Hopefully, in these pages, I have gone some small way towards achieving this. It’s hard to imagine what it was like to grow up in that most abrasive of decades, the 1970s, a time that today seems almost unimaginable. A decade that started full of hope that somehow the lessons we had learnt in the 1960s would help us navigate the next ten years. That hope gradually declined as the ’70s progressed.

Gone were the days of the 1960s as England descended from the beautiful technicolour of the previous decade into a grey, dismal monochrome. Looking back, it’s strange to think that the people mentioned in this book, who were so integral to me in the process of growing up, have now disappeared into the mists of time. Indeed, some of the players have taken their final bow and have now sadly departed from the stage. Gone maybe, but never forgotten.

The constant, however, through these pages, is Chelsea Football Club. Since 1967 they have been my passion, the master manipulator of my moods. The nerves and anxiety I feel whenever the Blues are playing have not dissipated in any way, shape or form, since the day I decided to nail my colours to Chelsea’s mast after the 1967 FA Cup Final loss to Spurs. The time period between 1972 and ’77 is not one of the most glorious eras in the Blues’ history but for those of us who lived through those difficult days, it has almost become a badge of honour that we stood firmly behind the club when they suffered some of the bleakest times in their history.

The departure of manager Eddie McCreadie in July 1977, when Chelsea were on the cusp of a bright, new dawn, still remains one of the bitterest moments I have endured supporting the Blues. Although the list of all the great players to have worn the blue shirt of Chelsea is endless, it’s still that classic line-up of 1970 that I hold closest to my heart. That team of Bonetti, Webb, McCreadie, Hollins, Dempsey, Harris, Cooke, Hudson, Osgood, Hutchinson and Houseman remains to me to this day the most iconic side we’ve ever produced. Yes, I know their achievements have been eclipsed in modern times, but as Scott Walker once sang, ‘You were my first love, and first love never ever dies.’

1

LOOKING BACK after all these years, you can’t say that the signs weren’t there for Chelsea Football Club. The crushing blow of going out of the FA Cup to Second Division Orient in the 1972 fifth-round tie at Brisbane Road had been a humiliation. Having thrown away a two-goal lead in that game was bad enough, but just one week later Chelsea, who had been massive favourites to lift their third trophy in as many years, surprisingly lost the League Cup Final 2-1 to a Stoke City side that eventually finished the season in the lower half of the First Division, which was nothing short of a disaster for the Blues. The air of invincibility that had enshrined the players and supporters was gone. The sunshine and blue clouds that had shone over Stamford Bridge had now been replaced by the threat of a storm that would last for a quarter of a century with only brief glimpses of the light that had shone so brightly.

Yet in that summer of 1972, I, like many other Chelsea fans, thought that that defeat to Stoke was merely a blip. I remember getting a brochure sent to my home from the club, outlining the plans for the brand-new East Stand and the total redevelopment of the Bridge. At the time it looked great. I had gone to the last home game of the 1971/72 season when we had beaten Stoke, of all teams, 2-0. It was a routine win. What we all would have given to have had that result at Wembley against the same opponents just a few weeks earlier.

After that victory there was a pitch invasion as loads of kids wanted to celebrate our win that night, and also to take a last look at the beautifully quaint East Stand before the bulldozers came in the following day. It was a shame that they were demolishing that historic edifice. It had been designed by Archibald Leitch, the great Scottish architect who was responsible for some of the finest stands ever built in this country, but time, as they say, moves on and the board had decided that a three-tier super-stand was the way to go. It was, in retrospect, a project that almost put the club out of existence.

On the spur of the moment that night, me, Steve Gallagher and Wally decided to join in with the masses crowding on to the pitch. So, for the one and only time, I trod the hallowed turf of Stamford Bridge. To be honest, I was quite surprised at the dip in the penalty area at the Shed end, compared to the level of the ground towards the touchline. From where I used to stand on the terraces in front of the tea bar, the pitch always looked to me like a perfect playing surface. Somewhere among the melee, Wally had found a tennis ball. What it was doing there, God only knows. He quickly got in goal at the Shed end, and then threw the ball to me.

This was it. This was my chance to score at the legendary Shed end. I duly smacked the ball past Wally, high into the roof of the net. My celebrations were cut short by Steve shoving me out of the way and saying, ‘My turn!’ But before he could take his once-in-a-lifetime shot, a groundsman had spotted us and in no polite manner told us to fuck off! We were then chased off the pitch. I left in a high state of excitement after scoring at the Shed end, while Gallagher was extremely pissed off that he had missed his golden opportunity.

There was another invasion at the opening game at the Bridge in August 1972. Every time Chelsea scored at the Shed end that day, thousands of kids would run on to the pitch. Seeing that me and Gallagher were now going to the games with a bunch of blokes who were in their mid-20s, we thought better of joining in; not wanting to appear as a couple of snotty-nosed 17-year-old kids. I remember after that game, there was a warning in the programme that the reduced boys’ admission prices would be scrapped if this behaviour happened again. Instead, all boys would have to pay the same as the adults. They needn’t have worried and there would be no more pitch invasions that season. In fact, the only exodus would be the crush of people trying to get away from what they were watching on the pitch.

Another thing I remember from that Stoke game was that the comedian Harry Worth was sitting opposite me on the train up to Euston. Harry was famous for being a bumbling, loveable fool in his TV series where, in the opening titles, he performed an optical illusion of standing sideways next to a plate glass shop window and lifting one leg and one arm, so that the reflection would look like he was doing a star jump. Hard to imagine, I know, but that is what passed for entertainment in those days. Harry, it must be said, looked far from loveable that day on the train. The people in our carriage had obviously recognised him, as I had, but Harry had a look on his face that seemed to say, ‘Fuck off and leave me alone.’ And so the journey to Euston passed with the usual, natural English reserve, of embarrassment and total silence.

This was also the day that I had decided to wear my Royal Brogues complete with Blakeys fitted in the heel. Blakeys were the height of fashion in those days. They were supposed to be heel protectors for your shoes. They consisted of a horseshoe-shaped strip of metal that you hammered in to the heel to stop the wear and tear of everyday use. However, that was not the reason why blokes of my age wore them. They produced a lovely clicking sound with every step which seemed to add a certain swagger and bravado to the youths of that era. Of course, I was also wearing the obligatory thin, luminescent socks that were de rigueur in those days. It was, in hindsight, a terrible decision.

By the time I had walked from the platform on to the concourse at Euston, my new Brogues were bloody crippling me, but somehow I struggled on. How, I do not know, as my journey to the ground that night included a walk from Pimlico, near Victoria Station where Steve lived, followed by another excruciating trek back after the game. It must have been youthful bravado and bluster that carried me through. How I got through the pain barrier to actually rifle that tennis ball into the net at the Shed end, I will never know.

On the walk back to Pimlico that night with my thin, pathetic socks offering no protection whatsoever, I could barely hobble across the road. At one stage, Gallagher and Wally raced ahead of me and got to the other side of the main drag in front of the Royal Chelsea Pensioners’ home, when I stupidly tried to follow them. I was then caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. I had no choice – I had to run for it. It was complete bloody agony. And then to top it all, I slid on the metal Blakeys and turned my ankle over. Gallagher and Wally found this extremely funny, while I was lying on the pavement clutching my ankle, but suddenly a beam of sunshine appeared in my cloud of darkness; perhaps I wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow, but, hang on, wait a minute. No school meant not being allowed out to play football down the fields with my mates the following night.

So, in truth, that was the only reason that I hobbled into school the following day, with my ankle heavily strapped up by my mum. Though my ankle was still sore and tender after school, nothing would stop me from making my nightly pilgrimage to the fields. So, in the end, that teenage folly of trying to impress my mates with my brand-new shoes had cost me dearly. The painful experience I had endured that night meant that that was the only time I ever wore my Royal Brogues, and let me tell you, at the time, they were bloody expensive. My poor mum, who had forked out for them, was repaid for her kindness by my throwing them into a cupboard, never to see the light of day again.

2

BY THE time the new season kicked off against Leeds at the Bridge in August 1972, Steve Gallagher, my wingman at all of the games in those days, was full of optimism, as was I, for what lay ahead. This blind faith is only usually found in the hearts and minds of 17-year-old boys. We had a strong faith in our beloved club. We still had the majority of the cup-winning sides of 1970 and ’71. Surely, we would put the disappointments of the previous season behind us, and silverware would return yet again to Stamford Bridge.

In front of 51,000 fans that muggy afternoon at the Bridge, Chelsea thumped Leeds 4-0; a somewhat fortuitous scoreline as Leeds lost their keeper, David Harvey, to injury early on with the game still goalless. Poor old Peter Lorimer was the unfortunate stooge who had to replace the stricken stopper. There is no denying that Lorimer was a fine winger with a thunderous shot. Alas, he was, in no shape or form, a goalkeeper, as he then proceeded to fumble one shot after another. You could practically see the confidence draining out of the Leeds side. Lorimer’s performance between the sticks resembled something that you would see over Hackney Marshes on a Sunday morning. Once Chelsea broke the deadlock, the floodgates opened, and the Blues put the hapless Lorimer and his team-mates to the sword. Goals by Peter Osgood, Charlie Cooke and Chris Garland, who weighed in with a brace, completed the rout.

So a good start to the season. Stuffing Leeds is always a great result. Yes, I know that their side was depleted through injury, but as the saying goes, you can only beat what is put in front of you and Chelsea, to their credit, had been ruthless. The only downside that day was the sight of the now-demolished East Stand. Behind those blue hoardings down one side of the pitch was a wasteland of rubble and dust. Just behind that was the railway line, and, what finally finished the ghastly scene, was a charming view of the local graveyard. It was, without doubt, a depressing vista that should have also been seen as an omen, a portent of what was to come.

Chelsea went on to make a decent start to the 1972/73 season. After demolishing Leeds on the opening day at the Bridge, they then travelled to Derby, the reigning league champions, and came away with a brilliant 2-1 victory which included a rare goal for Ron Harris and a winner from Garland, who was now starting to score freely after an injury-hit first season.

In early October, the Blues triumphed 1-0 at White Hart Lane to edge out Spurs yet again. However, by this time things had already started to look a little bit strange. I can clearly remember playing football down the fields on the Friday night before the Coventry game at Highfield Road, which I was due to go to the following day, and my mate John Clarke, being a bit late arriving that night. As soon as he saw me, he said, ‘Have you heard? Chelsea have sold Charlie Cooke and Paddy Mulligan to Crystal Palace.’

‘You’re joking!’ was my reply.

‘No, straight up,’ he said. ‘Chelsea boss Dave Sexton was quoted as saying, They were both surplus to requirements.’

I was dumbstruck. What the hell was going on? Selling Paddy Mulligan was bad enough, seeing that during the previous season he had secured a regular first-team place with his swashbuckling full-back play. In fact, his injury after half an hour in the League Cup Final defeat to Stoke was one of the major contributing factors to why we lost that game, owing to the positional changes the Blues were forced into after Mulligan sadly limped off the Wembley turf.

But it was the sale of Charlie Cooke that hurt the most. He was, and still is, one of the greatest players ever to wear the royal blue shirt. I was mystified. How could we let one of the finest wingers that the game had ever seen leave for bloody Crystal Palace? It didn’t make sense. After all, Cookey was barely 30 years old. I had heard manager Dave Sexton say in the press that he wanted to build a Chelsea side that relied less on flair and more on a solid work ethic, like Arsenal. What the hell was he talking about? The thought of ending up playing the sterile, boring way of the Gooners was a grim prospect, and so the first seeds of doubt took root in my mind and of many other Blues fans as well, that this was the end of an era. Yes, the Blues won 3-1 the following day at Coventry, but there was now a certain lack of panache about the team.

Throughout the autumn of 1972, things went from bad to worse; disappointing home draws against mid-table sides were followed by some dismal away defeats to clubs like Southampton. It didn’t help that after the demolition of the East Stand, the Bridge had all the charm and grace that can usually be found in a morgue. The players had to get changed in portacabins, and suddenly the visiting teams who had feared going to the Bridge in the past now started to fancy their chances, playing against an unstable, erratic home side, in a ground that was bereft of atmosphere.

As winter set in, the murmurs of discontent became palpable. And still, the old North Stand remained a really strange structure that stood alone in one corner of the away end of the Bridge. By now, this barn-like edifice resembled a decrepit, crumbling pagoda. Time was finally called on this ancient structure when fans complained that the whole stand was prone to swaying in high winds. So now, with the North Stand condemned and empty, the ground looked a complete and utter mess. What had looked so elegant and quaint just a few short years before, now looked old and tired.

The gloom was lifted slightly when Ian Hutchinson marked his long-awaited comeback by scoring two goals against Norwich City in December at the Bridge. It was a triumphant return after 22 months out with various injuries but even this was short-lived, as Hutch then tore a cartilage in the home draw with Derby in January 1973. Garland, who had started the season so well and had been scoring in practically every game, had now lost form and his eye for goal. I remember against Everton at the Bridge in December 1972, after he had provided the cross for Hutch’s last-minute equaliser, Garland promptly turned round to the supporters in the West Stand, who had been giving him murderous stick for the whole afternoon, and gave them the V sign. That would have been unthinkable during the glory days of 1970/71.

Chelsea at this time had also unveiled a new home shirt. Gone was the classic round-necked design. This was replaced with a collar and V-neck. I hated that shirt from day one. I thought it looked scruffy, and like something a lower-league side would wear. To make matters even worse, over the Christmas and New Year of 1972 we had lost the League Cup semi-final to newly promoted Norwich City after a shock 2-0 defeat to the Canaries in the first leg at the Bridge. We were 3-2 down at Carrow Road in the second leg and seemingly heading out of the competition when thick fog descended, which prompted the referee to abandon the game. Sadly, this was just a short stay of execution as Norwich won the re-arranged game 1-0 to take the tie to 3-0 on aggregate. It was a bleak result that was a harbinger of things to come.

The Blues had gone down meekly over the two legs of the semi-final against an industrious and efficient Norwich side. And, make no mistake, Norwich fully deserved their victory. But this result and level of performance by the Blues would have been hard to imagine a couple of years before. Norwich went on to lose the final 1-0 to Spurs, so, in retrospect, our defeat might have been a blessing in disguise because the thought of losing to Spurs at Wembley for our second successive League Cup Final defeat would have been too horrible to contemplate. There’s no doubt that Spurs were better than us at that time, and it’s hard to see how an erratic Chelsea side would have coped against their hated London rivals at Wembley that day.

The FA Cup briefly offered some hope but that was ended in the quarter-finals, when the Blues lost 2-1 to Arsenal in a replay at Highbury after the first game had ended 2-2, with Ossie scoring a brilliant volley from outside the box. It would go on to win the BBC’s Goal of the Season award. To be honest, Ossie’s prize was scant consolation for going out of the cup to the Gooners in that replay. What made it worse was that Chelsea were leading 1-0 through Peter Houseman’s header at Highbury that night, when Arsenal were awarded a penalty that was, in a word, debatable. First of all, the referee gave a free kick to the Gunners but then was besieged by a swarm of Arsenal players led by Alan Ball. They pushed and shoved the gutless ref, who then changed his mind and awarded a spot-kick. From the resulting penalty, Ball of all people duly dispatched his shot past John Phillips. The only good thing to come out of this defeat was that the Gooners then went on to lose the semi-final 2-1 to eventual cup winners, Sunderland, from the Second Division. It was a massive shock and a total humiliation for Arsenal, and brought a smile to the Chelsea supporters’ faces in what was a pretty desperate time. In fact, I can remember how much the mood had changed among the fans at the Bridge.

During Chelsea’s 2-0 defeat to Norwich in the first leg of the semi-final, Ron Harris was somewhat surprisingly substituted. He practically raced off the pitch that night to the sanctuary of the portacabins. Some smart-arse behind me and Gallagher shouted out, ‘I bet he’s off to pick up his BBC Sports Personality of the Year award,’ the ceremony for which was being held that night in London. People all around us burst out laughing, including Gallagher and myself. Yes, laughing at our captain who had lifted trophies in successive seasons, and was now the butt of jokes coming from the terraces – this from the same fans who had idolised the Chelsea side of just two short years ago. I found myself a bit ashamed that I had joined in, but you could tell that the tide was turning when even the home support had started to ridicule their own players.

After the cup exit to Arsenal, the season went from one low to another. We had already lost at home to Wolves in March that year and then Stoke City gave us the complete run-around at the Bridge that April. In the final home game of the 1972/73 season, Chelsea beat Manchester United 1-0; a game that marked the final United appearance of the legendary Bobby Charlton. Ossie’s goal secured our third home win in succession, which enabled us to limp home in 12th place. It had been a totally miserable season that had been slightly enhanced with good runs in both cup competitions. But how had a Chelsea side, that had been one of the best teams in the country just a couple of years ago, gone from those dizzying heights to a team that had finished in the bottom half of the old First Division?

Firstly, the ground didn’t help. It resembled nothing more than a decrepit old building site. Secondly, manager Dave Sexton didn’t seem to know his best side. Selling the legendary Charlie Cooke at the start of the season had been a disastrous decision. And why was Paddy Mulligan shown the door after showing so much promise? Little did we know that the rift between Sexton, and Peter Osgood and Alan Hudson, was growing wider and deeper by the day. This would ultimately lead to the fatal decision to sell both men after yet another training ground bust-up between the manager and those players at the start of 1974. This led to Ossie departing his spiritual home under a black cloud. Hudson also moved on but to be honest, I think he had lost total interest in playing for the club.

In that 1972/73 season, Ossie had been voted the club’s Player of the Year after weighing in with 17 goals. It was a remarkable feat seeing that he was playing in a struggling mid-table side. Two memories stick out for me that season. First of all, on a damp, cold Wednesday night at the Bridge, there was the sight of a fan in front of us ripping up his ticket for the Arsenal quarter-final in anger and fury as John Richards scored Wolves’ second goal to wrap up a 2-0 victory for the visitors. When this bloke had calmed down, he dropped to his knees saying, ‘What have I done?’ as he tried to piece the ticket back together again, much to the amusement of all of us. Still, it was a brief moment that somehow lifted the gloom on that wet, miserable night. Then there was the home defeat to Stoke when debutant Tommy Ord opened the scoring with a fine goal to give the Blues the lead. Chelsea then managed somehow to deflate like a balloon once Stoke had equalised. The Potters then went on to score another two goals to run out 3-1 winners. It was a total shambles.

What was even worse was that as the weeks went by, mine and Gallagher’s expectations went through the floor. Teams that we would have expected to roll over in the past were now coming to the Bridge fancying their chances. Also, the progress on the new