Ghosts of Christmas Past: 2007: Chelsea 4-4 Aston Villa

You have to really be there to appreciate it. That's what they say don't they? It's OK watching a game on the telly but you can't beat actually being there.

It's Boxing Day 2007 and Villa are at Stamford Bridge for a tasty Christmas clash.

But I'm not there.

I used to go to Chelsea a lot, in the days when the away terrace was miles away from the pitch, Ken Bates wanted to electrocute us all and if the home fans couldn't get close enough to thump us, they'd hurl sandbags at us. Not all together pleasant but at least it was affordable to go.

No real excuses, but I very rarely go to Chelsea nowadays because I don't like to validate their policy of charging extortionate prices for tickets by paying for them. I have occasionally lapsed but not on this occasion. Attempting that sort of trip on public transport on a Bank Holiday is no easy task and I've no wish to spend hours on a coach full of people who've been eating Brussels Sprouts the day before.

So as kick off time arrives, I'm in a packed drinking establishment on Broad Street, all red vinyl upholstery and gassy Carlsberg. Mind you the atmosphere is buzzing. Though the place is busy, some of my friends and acquaintances have managed to establish a bridgehead in a ideal spot, with good views of several of the tellies and one of the big screens, and relatively easy access to the Bar and the bogs.

Crucially, though the bar seems top be three deep at times, service is relatively swift.

The match gets under-way and Villa waste no time getting at Chelsea's suspect full backs, Ashley Cole and Paulo Ferreira. Their hesitance leads to early opportunities for both Gabby and Ashley Young.

It seems that a goal is almost inevitable and on the quarter hour, we strike, Gabby robbing Saloman Kalou of possession making headway down the right then finding Big John Carew with an inch perfect pass. Big John heads the ball across the goal on to the boot of Shaun Maloney who volleys home with aplomb.

The pub explodes with delight, with Carlsberg and Brummies flying everywhere. What's better is that Villa are keeping up the pace on a reeling Chelsea. Gabby gets two more great chances, putting one just over from am awkward angle where Petr Cech denies him a goal from the other one with a reflex save.

Things are going well until Fat Frank Lampard picks up an injury and his replacement, Michael Ballack, starts to give Chelsea a foothold in the game. As a consqeuence Chelsea get their first decent chance of the match but Joe Cole hits it with all the force of wet lettuce and it drops safely into Scott Carson's arms.

Then Shaun Maloney tests Cech again and this time the Chelsea keeper made a total hash of it, the ball bouncing off his arm and squirming into the net.

Two nil up, damn nearly half time and with Chelsea on the back foot, what could possibly go wrong?

Did I mention that the ref is Phil Dowd?

Michael Essien mishits a shot from 25 yards out and somehow the ball contrives to fall spawnily at the feet of Ballack who gets in front of Zat Knight . Knight gives Ballack the slighest of touches but that's enough for Dowd to award a penalty and having done so, giving him little option but to send the hapless Villa defender off. Shevchenko sends Carson the wrong way from the penalty spot and it's 2-1 at half time.

Martin O'Neill has no choice but to reorganise and it's two goal hero Shaun Maloney that is sacrificed. It's probably the last straw for the young Scot and he'll leave Villa not long later, which is a real shame. In this match Curtis Davies replaces him to slot in for the departed Zat.

While those in the ground are no doubt queueing for a Bovril, we are trying to negotiate the drinking establishment's toilets where they seem desperate to flog us a squirt of after shave.

As the second half gets underway, Chelsea make their superior numbers count putting Villa under the cosh. Soon Kalou finds space on the edge of the box and lays a ball across to Shevchenko who needs just one touch to hit a stunning shot leaving Carson no chance.

Two-two.

Grrrrr.

Chelsea are pummelling us now. Kalou skies one over and Ballack has two decent efforts from distance before Brazilian centre-half Alex decides to wreck our Christmas, bringing the ball out of defence, playing a one-two with Shevchenko and running on to drive a low shot into the bottom corner.

Three-two to them.

Double Grrrrr.

We are not out of it though. Not by a long chalk. Ashley Young drifts a free kick right into the heart of the box and Martin Laursen of all people is there to drive it past Cech on the volley.

Glorious!

Three-three. What a game! What an afternoon. We're not done yet.

Carvalho inexplicably decides to use both feet to tackle Agbonlahor, giving Phil Dowd the perfect excuse to get his red card out again and level up the numbers.

It's now a ding-dong battle as both teams go in search of the win and it looks like Chelsea have sealed it when Ballack caps a wonderful display by netting an awesome free-kick with just minutes remaining.

Four-three to them.

HUMBUG!!!

Gabby Agbonlahor's last gasp header is cleared off the line by Ashley Cole. The whole pub shouts “HANDBALL” in unison. We might be in Birmingham but we're making so much noise Phil Dowd might just have heard us in London. He gives the penalty.

Gareth Barry duly nets from the sport and the game, a truly remarkable rollercoaster of a game finishes 4-4.

Absolutely wonderful. Football as it should be played. Full of heart, passion, skill and thoroughly entertaining.

You have to really be there to appreciate it. You do.

But I'll tell you something, this was pretty bloody enjoyable viewed from a Birmingham boozer packed full of like minded Villans. It must have been pretty special for the people that were there.

Ghosts of Christmas Past: 1989 - "Fergie, Fergie On The Dole"

Dek Hogan looks back at a festive fixture that didn't give Alex Ferguson a very Merry Christmas...

It's Boxing Day 1989!

It's always a bit of a treat to be at home the day after Christmas. Home games against United are always a bit special too and in a way I'm a bit annoyed that the two things have converged. It seems to me we're sort of getting swizzed out of a special occasion playing a fixture that guarantees a bumper crowd on a date that guarantees a bumper crowd.

Pre-match pints are in order and I take some stick for having had turkey sandwiches for breakfast. There's A LOT of turkey left.

Word begins to filter through the pub that it's starting to look a bit busy outside the Holte End so we neck our pints and head for the ground. The Hillsborough disaster back in April had caused tighter ground regulations to come in, resulting in -amongst other things - a reduced capacity in the Holte End. Get there too late and you might not get in!

The queues for either side of the Holte are snaking down both Trinity Road and Witton Lane as we arrive and some of the chaps glumly join the back of the queue. Those of us with season tickets desperately attempt not to look too smug as we march past the growing throng and head for the dedicated, queueless season ticket turnstiles.

We're in! Some of the lads aren't so lucky.

Eventually word goes round that a) kick off is being delayed due to the crowds outside and b) not everyone is going to get in. The papers will later report that hundreds are turned away. It's difficult to argue that more could have been let in as we realise that the crowd is so densely packed that we can only manage to climb about two thirds of the way in our quest to get to the back. It also occurs to us that if the lads outside do manage to get in,  they'll never find us.

Having managed to find a good vantage position, it would be a brave man that would risk losing it by going in search of a pie. Those turkey sandwiches I had for breakfast don't seem so silly now. It also soon becomes apparent that it would also take a brave man to lose his spot by going to the Gents, judging by the streams of steaming fluid that are starting to flow down the terrace.

I make a mental note to stay upright should we manage to score. This is not a day to fall over.

Gareth Williams' debut match

United have been struggling of late and their prospects are not improved by the fact that Captain Marvel Bryan Robson is unable to play. His replacement is one Clayton Blackmore and Clayton is not going to have a good afternoon. Taking his bow for us is 22 year old debutant Gareth Williams and Clayton is managing to make him look like a very promising player.

It's probably fair to say that nothing Clayton does would have even managed to excite a young David Beckham...

The key feature of a goalless first half is a truly wonderful display from huge Danish defender Kent Nielsen who keeps an increasingly frustrated Mark Hughes in his pocket throughout, to the absolute glee of a taunting Holte End. It's fair to say we have little love for Hughes and watching him completely shackled by Kent is truly the highlight of Christmas.

Kent Nielsen - Superb

Hughes strike partner is one Brian McClair who was on Villa's books as a youth player but vanished amidst talk of home sickness. He doesn't seem too happy to be back this time either, giving God an easy afternoon as the Villa faithful taunt Fergie with the sounds of “Thank you very much for Paul McGrath”.

It's probably not lost on the dour Scots manager that the man running the Villa midfield, one David Platt, is a United reject too.

Honours may be even at half time but there's no question that we've been the better side and sure enough in the second half, the goals start to flow.

On 56 minutes, Sid Cowans puts in a free kick. Derek Mountfield and Paul McGrath both help the ball on and United's Jim Leighton can only parry Platty's powerful shot. A grateful Ian Olney makes no mistake and buries it!

The Holte goes mad! And surges. Inevitably a few poor souls find themselves tumbling into the river of piss as a human tsunami unfurls. The canny trick when helping them up is to make sure that you aren't the one pressed up against their urine soaked coats as they regain their feet and the crowd's density returns.

Now Platt really starts to dazzle as Tony Daley comes to life.

Daley leaves Mike Phelan trailing in his wake and slots through to Platt who is right in front of goal. Platt ghosts past Viv Anderson and Gary Pallister, rounds the keeper and deftly slots home. More unconfined joy in the Holte and this time less people topple into the piss river.

United reject David Platt scores Villa's second

The Holte End is now joyously singing “Fergie, Fergie on the dole”. Even people that aren't joining in with the regular songs jump on the bandwagon on that one.

Happy Christmas!!!!

Fan favourite Kevin Gage nets Villa's third as Ince winces

Tony Daley is now having a wonderful time and scampers again down the right, cuts inside for Platt who lays it off for the advancing full back Kevin Gage whose low drive evades Leighton for 3-0 Villa. We're having a disco in the Holte by now.

We Win!!

The crowd will be confirmed as 41,247 which seems a bit low given that people have been turned away and it's been jam packed where we are. Sceptics mutter something about “cash turnstiles” and “liberties with the VAT” but they've probably been watching too much Minder. Who cares? Three points and we are being talked about as genuine title contenders.

It certainly doesn't get much better than this.

Back to the pub then. There's certainly no rush to get home.

It's turkey and chips for tea.

Competition: League Division One
Venue: Villa Park
Attendance: 41,247

Referee: David Elleray

Aston Villa : Nigel Spink, Kevin Gage, Derek Mountfield, Kent Nielsen, Paul McGrath, David Platt, Gordon Cowans, Gareth Williams, Ian Olney, Ian Ormondroyd, Tony Daley

Manchester United: Jim Leighton, Viv Anderson, Gary Pallister, Steve Bruce, Lee A Martin, Clayton Blackmore, Lee Sharpe, Paul Ince, Mike Phelan, Brian McClair, Mark Hughes

New Year's Day 1985: Villa 3 WBA 1

Dek Hogan recounts a particularly hard fought local derby...

It's January 1^st 1985.

I'm sitting on quite possibly the ricketiest Number 11 bus I've ever been on and the driver seems to be contriving to hit every pothole. Every vibration is pounding through my fragile bonce as the words of my dad resonate in my head. “Self inflicted wounds, no sympathy”.

Despite the pounding in my head, I decide that music must be a better option and I turn on my Sanyo personal stereo. I have to turn the volume up high to drown out the noisiness of the diesel engine, the drone of the chattering passengers and the general creakiness of the bus.

“All is quiet on New Year's Day”, wails Bono through the fluorescent orange sponge of my headphones. Quiet? You are having a laugh Bono!

It has taken me far longer than it usually would on a match day to peel myself off my mattress. I clearly overdid the whiskey chasers the night before but the consequence of my later than usual arrival is that I can't get to my usual Holte End spot, near the back of the right side, because it's rammed. The official attendance for this game will be recorded as 31,710 but it certainly feels like there's more than that because my second, third and fourth choices of terrace position seem fairly inaccessible too.

In the end, for the first and - it will turn out – only time, I elect to watch the game from underneath the scoreboard. It ordinarily has always seemed like a pretty dull part of the Holte from which to watch the game, but not today. There are two factors which mean that the atmosphere is good wherever you stand.

Firstly, it's a holiday game, so as well as the hard core that turn up every game, we've got the old school Villa fans who supported Villa man and boy but now only come down twice a year on New Years and Boxing Day but have some great tales to tell from days of yore. Then there's the kiddies that will be the Villa support of the future, brought down by their dads as a Christmas treat and for some of them, it's that very special first game.

Many of them have milk crates to stand on so that they can get some sort of view. If this practice seems a trifle unsafe if you are reading this in the health and safety obsessed 21st century, well it was a bit but not as much as you'd think. We didn't need loads of rules in those days, we looked after each other.

We are making so much noise as kick off approaches that it's impossible to make out the team news on the tannoy and it's not until the players emerge that we can work out who is playing where. There is some consternation around me that Colin Gibson has been selected in midfield ahead of |Gordon Cowans, with some people calling Graham Turner an idiot, but not everyone agrees with the dissenters and I'm one of them.

As it turns out Gibbo will have a decent game.

Things don't start too well though. This particular Albion side has a reputation of being physical and they certainly aren't going to hold back in the rumbustious atmosphere of a local derby. Villa players react in kind and after just thirteen minutes Albion get what was probably an inevitable penalty. Carl Valentine attempts to ghost past Tony Dorigo and the Australian lad's response is robust. Neil Midgley bravely points to the spot to ire of an increasingly lively Holte End and Derek Statham puts the Baggies one up from the spot.

Going a goal down only fuels the Holte into more relentless singing and unbridled rage.

The pace of the game never seems to slow, but the rhythm is constantly disjointed as tackles best described as full-blooded fly in all over the park. For the cultured football purist viewing the game from 2013, it probably sounds horrendous but for a partisan crowd desperate for bragging rights over the opposition it's absolutely bloody great stuff.

It soon becomes clear that Albion are making challenges with such reckless abandon that they are putting themselves in as much danger as they are our lads. Eventually, on the half hour, this catches them out. A wild tackle by Ally Robertson on Paul Rideout sees the Albion centre-half come off the worse. The resulting free kick sees Colin Gibson latch on to Rideout's flick on and score effortlessly past Tony Godden.

Robertson gamely tries to limp on but doesn't emerge for the second half. With only one sub allowed and the game showing no signs of calming down, this is a big plus for us.

With the Baggies forced to rearrange, Villa look more and more the better side with Steve McMahon dominating the midfield, so it's no massive surprise to see his lob setting Paul Birch free to score Villa's second.

Paul Rideout puts the game beyond doubt with an assured finish but even though there will be no more goals, the incident that has everyone talking about is yet to occur.

Allan Evans and aggressive West Brom striker David Cross go up for a header. From my position under the Holte End scoreboard, I clearly see Cross elbow Evans in the face. It looks completely deliberate and very nasty. The reaction of the other Villa players to the incident makes it clear to me that I'm not mistaken. It is fair to say that not everyone around me spots it, but they take little convincing of what has happened when it becomes clear that Villa's captain is out cold.

It doesn't take much to turn the atmosphere at an eighties soccer match and this incident turns the vibe particularly ugly.

There are 38 fouls in the game, 23 of them perpetrated by Albion players.

Villa boss Graham Turner states “You expect local derbies to be a bit physical.” after the game. David Cross and his elbow ensure that attempting to catch the bus home after the match will turn out to be “a bit physical” too.

The game has certainly got the adrenalin flowing, which seems to have cured the New Year hangover.

Just need to find a way through the Witton Lane riot now to get to the bus stop.

"Let's hope it's a quiet one": Derby 3 Aston Villa 4

Dek Hogan recalls an eventful cup tie at the Baseball Ground, viewed from the wrong end...

Wednesday 5^th February 1992 and Villa are in the middle of a goal drought, only having managed one goal since January 1^st, that goal coming in an FA Cup 3^rd Round Third Round Replay at White Hart lane. As a consequence, we have a mouthwatering fourth round clash with Derby County at the crumbling but hugely atmospheric Baseball Ground.

Despite our lack of firepower, it's an unmissable match. Sadly, tickets for the away end are at an absolute premium and despite being a season ticket holder with plenty of away games to my credit, I don't manage to get one. This isn't a massive surprise, since the away scheme of the day consists of the ticket office rubber stamping a yellow away attendance card with a rubber date stamp with a small Villa badge on it. Since the date stamps have been duplicated within days of the start of the scheme, it's not working out brilliantly in terms of fairness. There's people in the Aston Social openly offering to stamp your card.

However, three of us still travel to Derby, ticketless, because one of the lads knows “a friend of Andy Gray” and apparently they will leave us tickets at the players entrance in Derby. Andy is Big Ron's trusty assistant. It seems a tad unlikely, but Derby isn't exactly a massive jaunt so we take the risk and are soon to be found waiting outside the ground in the hope of tickets.

And waiting.

And waiting.

It soon becomes apparent that no such tickets are going to materialise. By now, even though we are outside and at the opposite end to the away section,  the cacophony being created in the claret and blue contingent is almost deafening. One thing not being able to go, but ten times worse when you can actually hear the fantastic atmosphere but can't join in.

Dejected, we somehow get into conversation with a couple of Derby County stewards outside the ground, recounting our tale of woe, but in doing so, rather exaggerating our Villa credentials in a desperate bid to gain sympathy. Somehow, they get the impression that we are stewards back at Villa Park and we do nothing to correct this misapprehension, even hinting that if the game were to go a replay, we might be able to get them into Villa Park.

Suddenly, we are being escorted into the ground. We've blagged our way in! (Imagine trying to pull a stunt like that now). There's no way our new found Derby friends can get us into the away end, so we find ourselves behind the back row of the lower tier behind the opposite goal, and we hear ourselves promising faithfully that no matter how exciting the game gets, we won't give away our Villa fan status to the hordes of Derby fans ahead of us.

No sheep impressions tonight then, but little do we know just how difficult that promise will prove to keep, as one of the most incident filled cup-ties ever is about to unfurl in front of us. I actually say "Let's hope it's a quiet one" on the way in.

Fat chance.

The game gets underway, the Villa faithful are in full voice and while we can't join in, it is with some pride that we witness just how loud the boys (and girls) sound from the other end.

Just five minutes in and we go a goal down. Les Sealey manages to make a total hash of a Ted McMinn cross and Phil Gee – only playing because Marco Gabbadini is ineligible – gratefully scores the tap-in.

This is where blending in with the Derby fans becomes difficult. I knew stifling joy at a Villa goal would be a challenge but I hadn't even considered what my reaction should be for a Derby goal. I can't celebrate it. I'm on the verge of breaking into some low key polite applause when I become aware that one of my mates has started berating poor Les Sealey for the error. Our cover isn't totally blown but the people in close proximity soon suss who we are.

Before the Derby fans can decide whether to hang us or not, Villa equalise.

There's a frenzied goalmouth scramble which ends with England hero Peter Shilton on his knees and helpless as Dwight Yorke eventually fires home. The Villa end goes apeshit. In the home stand, I murmur a muted “yes” but I'm screaming and dancing on the inside. This muffled response appears to earn a grudging respect from the Derby fans that have discovered our true identity. It looks like we might actually get away with being in here.

Some good natured banter breaks out - though one or two of them look us up and down as though we'd molested their sisters - and it soon becomes clear that as long as we don't make too much of a fuss, we should be safe for the rest of the game.

The equaliser sparks Villa into life and soon we take the lead, a corner from Froggy gets Shilton into all sorts of trouble and he's virtually sitting down as Yorke's cheeky lob finds its way into the back of the net.

The impressive Garry Parker then makes a run from the halfway line, leaving Derby players flailing in his wake and drives the ball spectacularly past Peter Shilton from twenty yards and we are 3-1 up. It's really hard to attempt to blend into the shadows in a stand full of miserable looking Derby County fans when you've got a Cheshire Cat grin on your face.

Ho-hum.

Derby soon get back into it though, McMinn bamboozling Paul McGrath and putting in an inch perfect cross for Phil Gee to place an unchallenged header into the back of the net. Now it is the Derby end's turn to celebrate and fire a few well-worded barbs in our direction as we do our best to look inconspicuous.

We manage to get our fourth before half-time, a nailed on penalty. To his credit, Peter Shilton manages to save Dwight's spot kick but can do nothing to stop the Villa man slotting home the rebound.

4-2 up at half time and looking good. Goal drought? What goal drought?

The second half is never going to be quite as exciting as the first. Peter Shilton manages to save another Yorke penalty and Paul Williams prevents us from breathing easily by putting Derby back into it on the hour, but to be honest, I'm not sure the ticker can take much more excitement. Martin Carruthers even gets a much anticipated first team run-out. We have high hopes for him.

The final whistle goes, we escape the ground in one piece and an away tie at Swindon Town awaits. To avoid having to spend another tense cup-tie sweating in the wrong end, we will end up queuing overnight at Villa Park to secure our tickets for that game.

I always enjoyed the atmosphere of the Baseball Ground and have many happy memories, though I will admit that I've also enjoyed trips to Pride Park, just not quite as much. New grounds are just so sterile and while we can now watch games cosseted by the gurus of health and safety, I'm so glad I'm old enough to have experienced the buzz of the old school.

You just don't get that electricity any more.

Score: Derby County 3 Aston Villa 4
Competition: FA Cup 4th round
Attendance 22,452

Derby County: Peter Shilton, Mike Forsyth, Simon Coleman, Paul D Williams, Andy Comyn, Jason Kavanagh, Geraint Williams, Martyn Chalk, Ian Ormondroyd, Phil Gee, Ted McMinn

Aston Villa: Les Sealey, Dariusz Kubicki, Shaun Teale, Paul McGrath, Bryan Small, Kevin Richardson, Steve Froggatt, Garry Parker, Dwight Yorke, Tony Daley, Cyrille Regis

1962: Dougan double ends 24 years of hurt

It's 20th August 1962 and a Monday night.

Tensions are running high in the divided city of Berlin, Princess Margaret is on the verge of giving birth for the second time and nearly fifty-six thousand people have forgone the delights of watching Bonanza on ATV to head for Villa Park.

Just two days before Villa have started the season in good form with a 3-1 victory over West Ham at Villa Park. With another home game it's a chance to get the season off to a belting start. There's a snag though, we are playing Spurs.

Spurs have just been installed as favourites by the bookies for both the League and the FA Cup, the nucleus of Bill Nicholson's double winning side is there and Spurs never lose to Villa. You have to go back to 1938 to find Villa's last success against the Lilywhites. It's an embarrassment but a record that Joe Mercer's men are keen to put to bed.

In the twenty five post war clashes, we've managed just six draws and since our last win, television has taken off, we've defeated Hitler, had a new Queen and the movies have gone into colour. 1938 seems a lifetime ago.

Mercer's Minors fly out of the traps and batter Spurs for the first twenty minutes. Nicholson's men maybe taken aback with the furiosity with which Villa go about their work but they have the no-nonsense Dave Mackay and the solid Maurice Norman at the back and if we can manage to get past them we face the wall that is Bill Brown in goal.

For all our youthful energy and endeavour we can't find a way through.

Suddenly our failure to capitalise costs us. Jimmy Greaves has been subdued by his standards but suddenly finds himself with an opportunity, Nigel Sims saves but manages to spill the ball into the path of Terry Medwin. The winger accepts the gift with glee and puts Spurs one ahead.

As the game continues it's the Villa defence that looks more secure, manacling Spurs creativity while the Londoners' own back line seems to be having more and more difficulty dealing with the robust nature of wave upon wave of Villa attacks.

Then two minutes that turned the score line on its head.

Firstly, Harry Burrows puts a cross into the box with such force that the up until now seemingly unbeatable Bill Brown can only parry. Derek Dougan manages to leave Maurice Norman standing in the race for the ball and his header snakes in the back of the net.

With Spurs still scratching their heads as to what's just happened, Villa strike again in what will be the move of the match. Jimmy MacEwan goes on a powerful run through the middle, picks out Harry Burrows on the right wing. The speed of the move has left the Spurs defence struggling to get back as Burrows centres for Dougan who unleashes what can only be described as an unstoppable shot.

They call Dougan “Cheyenne” due to his cowboy walk. He's certainly proving to be a sharp-shooter tonight.

Spurs seem deflated after and never really manage to get back into the game. Villa's years of hurt are over. They've beaten Spurs.

Villa's cracking start to the season will continue with an away win at Manchester City the following Saturday but our lording it over Spurs lasts just nine days. In the return game at the White Hart Lane, despite goals from Dougan and Alan Deakin, a brace from Jimmy Greaves helps his team to a 4-2 victory.

At least the Spurs hoodoo has been broken though. Little do we know it'll be over three years before we manage to beat them again.

Aston Villa 2 Tottenham Hotspur 1
Competition: League Division One
Venue: Villa Park
Attendance: 55,630

Villa: Nigel Sims, Gordon Lee, Charlie Aitken, John Sleeuwenhoek, Vic Crowe, Alan Deakin, Harry Burrows, Bobby Thomson, Jimmy MacEwan, Derek Dougan, Alan Baker

Spurs: Bill Brown, Peter Baker, Ron Henry, Maurice Norman, Danny Blanchflower, Dave Mackay, Bobby Smith, Cliff Jones, Terry Medwin, John White, Jimmy Greaves

1995: Bozzie takes out Klinsmann

It's the 25th January 1995. It's also very wintry.

Almost too wintry for my Australian relatives. Quite why Australians choose to come to Arctic Birmingham in the middle of their summer is a puzzler. It turns out that the teenage lad is a decent soccer player and is over here for trials with a few clubs. Sadly, his asthma – only mild and not much of an encumbrance in his native Oz – is flaring up quite badly in the much more polluted and dirty English air. His dreams look like being scuppered.

However they are keen to take in a top flight match while they are here and apparently it's my duty to take them. The midweek match against Spurs suits their timetable so I organise them tickets. It's all season tickets around my seat in the Holte End so I sort them seats in the Witton Lane. This is probably a good idea as I'm unlikely to be on my best “relatives visiting” behaviour while in the emotional throes of a Villa match. I also take the canny step of ensuring that the Aussies are doing the driving.

It's not been that long since Brian Little has taken over the helm at Villa Park and Gerry Francis hasn't had his feet under the table at The Lane for that long either. Gerry's only defeat in the job so far has come against the Villa in a 4-3 thriller, made all the more remarkable by the fact that Villa were between managers at the time.

Personally, I'm still miffed at Big Ron's sacking but Deadly Doug has been canny in getting Villa folk hero Little in to replace him, so I suppose I'm placated. Little's appointment has not been without controversy though it's only been a couple of months since we were welcomed by the regulars of Filbert Street with a mixture of fists and CS gas, pretty much as a consequence of Our Brian's defection from the Foxes.

We arrive at the Aston Social for pre-match drinks and my Aussie uncle makes the novice error of parking at the back of the car park. This will add a good half hour to the journey home, but hey sitting in a freezing cold car listening to the football phone in on the radio is all part of the English match experience.

The Aussies are somewhat taken aback by the Aston Social-on-a-matchday experience, likening it to the Cantina scene in Star Wars. I'm mildly insulted. With a forty thousand crowd expected, the place is packed to the rafters and it takes about three pints before they relax and feel a bit more at home. Then it's time to walk to the ground and they wrap themselves up like Nanook of the North. To be fair to them, it is a bit on the nippy side. They decline the offer of a dirty burger from "Sam and Ella's", which is hardly getting into the spirit of things.

We ponder whether Super Tommy Johnson has been availing himself of the street food on offer outside as he promptly throws up just prior to kick off.

The match gets underway and to be honest it's not a classic, hardly the advert for Premiership football that you want when you've brought along visitors from a foreign land.

All the action considered newsworthy happens within a few first half minutes:

Spurs have the clearest early chance. Barmby's short pass leaves Klinsmann with a clear run on Bozzie but the German uncharacteristically hesitates with his shot and the Australian keeper's legs come to Villa's rescue.

Steve Staunton is revelling in the midfield role handed to him by Little and it is his sweet left footed pass that puts Dean Saunders through, Saunders cuts inside, runs across an oddly tentative Austin, and powers his shot diagonally across the despairing Ian Walker. Saunders is in a rich vein of form, this is his fourth goal in six games.

Villa fans are still celebrating the goal when the match's key talking point occurs

Jurgen Klinsmann, chasing a long ball from Popescu, is clattered outside the penalty area by Bosnich. Properly clattered. It really does look horrendous and now the German is lying motionless on the turf. Jurgen is well known for making the most of situations where he may or not have been fouled, but this is usually accompanied by bouts of histrionics. He's still not moving.

Mark Bosnich surveys his handiwork

As Bosnich would explain “It was unfortunate and a pure accident”

"I was going to head the ball until Paul McGrath got in the way. Otherwise it would have been mine.

"I'm very sorry. and I told Jurgen so when I saw him at half time.”

It looks hideous at the time and concerns for the striker's welfare aren't eased as he has to be stretchered off and will take no further part in the game. We later learn, from the people with transistor radios, that he is suffering from a swollen nose, leading to a string of unsympathetic remarks about how big his hooter was in the first place.

Remarkably, and much to the chagrin of both Gerry Francis and the travelling Spurs contingent, Bozzie doesn't even get booked. He's booed throughout the rest of the match.

In the German's absence, Spurs push the lively Nick Barmby forward and they have a real go at us but it's our Ian Taylor who goes closest to troubling the scoresheet, heading just wide as Holte Enders begin trailing down for a half time pint.

It's a bit to and fro in the second half but we probably deserve our victory on the balance of play.

Paul McGrath forces Ian Walker into a spectacular save at one end while Popescu heads point blank straight at Bosnich at the other.

Somewhat ironically, Bozzie is booked for time wasting towards the end, and it's fairly obvious from the Spurs fans reaction that are in no mood to forgive.

A one-nil Villa victory then but all the talk is of the Bosnich/Klinsmann incident.

We meet back up with Aussies who ask if the atmosphere is always that acrimonious. It would be ungracious of me to point out to them that it was, in fact, an Australian that caused all the bother.

I point it out anyway.

Aston Villa 1 Tottenham Hotspur 0
Goal: Dean Saunders 18 mins
Referee: Robbie Hart
Competition: Premier League
Venue: Villa Park
Attendance: 40,017

Aston Villa: Bosnich; Barrett, McGrath, Ehiogu, Teale, Yorke (Charles, 89min), Taylor, Townsend, Staunton, Saunders, Johnson (Houghton,78).

Tottenham Hotspur: Walker; Austin, Calderwood, Mabbutt, Edinburgh, Popescu, Barmby, Campbell, Anderton, Klinsmann (Caskey, 26), Sheringham.

Postscript:
We fully expect the media to crucify Bozzie for the challenge on Klinsmann but something remarkable is happening at Selhurst Park which take the media spotlight off our keeper.

Eric Cantona, reacting to taunts from a pillock in the crowd, has launched himself two-footed at the miscreant and all hell has broken loose. The unpredictable Frenchman will fill the front and as well as the back pages, which will spare the young Australian for the full glare of the venomous press.

Gerry Francis is no mood to let the matter drop and bleeds all over the papers for the next few days.

The incident will, however, come back to haunt Bosnich in October 1996 in a match at White Hart Lane. The keeper reacts to Spurs chants of “Klinsmann, Klinsmann” with what he will claim is a Basil Fawlty homage, but what sadly looks far more like a Nazi Salute.

White Hart Lane is not the place to be doing that...

FA Charity Shield 1981: Aston Villa 2 Spurs 2

It's the summer of 1981.

My beloved Aston Villa are League Champions. It's wonderful, fantastic!

But...

Being a dour Brummie, I can, of course, find a downside. Everyone says winning the league is more important and more of an achievement than winning the FA Cup, but with the cup you get the day out at Wembley and the moment of exhilaration when the winning goal goes in and when the captain holds the cup aloft.

It would have been fantastic if we'd won the League in our last home game versus Middlesbrough, but sadly it wasn't to be. For a while, the rumour had gone around the ground that we actually had clinched it that day, a rumour which even reached as far as Jimmy Rimmer but soon, word got out that we hadn't, leading to a terrible feeling of anti-climax, so when we were eventually crowned Champions, it was on the back of an away defeat at Highbury.

The Victoria Square civic reception is a great occasion and no mistake but my boyhood dreams are of lifting a cup aloft at Wembley, not on the Council House steps.

What I'm forgetting about of course is the FA Charity Shield.

I'll be honest, it's not really an event that I've paid much attention to in the past. The only one I can actually remember with anything approaching clarity is the clash between Leeds and Liverpool which saw Billy Bremner and Kevin Keegan sent off and walking shirtless and snarling towards the Tunnel End.

It's a trip to Wembley though, a chance for all Villa fans to celebrate on mass from the terraces, and a chance to best the cocky Londoners, Chas 'n Dave 'n all.

Gotta be done.

We decide to go with the official Aston Travellers Club and we're by no means the only ones. The scale of the operation becomes clear as we descend on the Aston Villa Sports and Leisure Centre/Serpentine Car Park which has disappeared under a sea of charabancs. We eventually find ours, coach number 22, towards the Asda. My dad is way back on coach fifty something and I ponder whether coaches with that high a number will even make it out of the car park by kick off time, let alone London.

The journey down the M1 is fairly uneventful, though the road is a sea of claret and blue with scarves seemingly flailing from every other car window. No on-board toilet facilities to speak off so the coach convoy pulls into Toddington services and judging by the length of the queue, it must be the entire convoy. As one wag puts it “Two million on the dole and they all wanna go for a piss at the same time”.

Eventually the convoy snakes its way through the North London Saturday traffic and our coach parks almost in the shadow of the Twin Towers. It becomes clear that with the vast volume of traffic parking up behind us, there will be no tearing hurry to get back on board the coach post match. We'll be going nowhere fast.

As we sit on the steep stairway leading to our allotted turnstiles waiting for them to open (to ensure getting a prime spot on terraces), a group of around a hundred Spurs fans decide to mount an assault on our position. I can only think they are expecting the Villa contingent to run away, but the opposite happens and their faces turn as white as their shirts as hordes of angry Brummies hurtle towards them. They run away at an even faster pace than they had been charging forward and the angry Villa mob erupts into expletive filled song

Soon the gates are open and we position ourselves with the best view we can find. Wembley isn't an ideal place to watch football though. We're at the tunnel end, in the upper section section of terrace and even the goal at our end seems to be an entire football pitch away, thanks to the dog track and provision for Speedway (for which they dig up the wings of the pitch, wrecking it). It's not really about the view here though, it's about the atmosphere. I don't of course know at this stage that this will be my last ever time on Wembley terraces, but I'm savouring every moment anyway.

Tickets are divided between an upper and lower enclosure and it soon becomes clear that quite a lot of the lower people would much rather be with us in upper and the precious process of dragging people up by their arms gets into full swing.

As the players emerge from the tunnel, it's clear there's no Gary Shaw, which is disappointing, though Spurs are missing Garth Crooks with cartilage issues which sort of evens things up. The Crooks-Archibald partnership had rivalled that of Withe-Shaw in effectiveness so it's sad that neither is on display.

Despite Spurs goal scoring prowess and flair filled midfield, they hadn't challenged us for the title due to shakiness at the back and have signed up Liverpool's Ray Clemence to attempt to rectify the situation.

We kick off then and Ozzie “Tottingham” Ardiles and Glenn Hoddle are showing no signs of pre-season rust. We are certainly on the back foot as Tony Galvin and Ricky Villa provide outlets for Ardiles and Hoddle's industry, while Steve Archibald looks dangerous, put through twice by delightful (unless you're a Villa fan) Hoddle flicks.

Villa's answer to Ozzie's artistry is to flatten him with increasing regularity. No one is getting involved in the physicality of the game more than Peter Withe, seemingly at war with Roberts and Miller. A particularly graphic clash between him and Chris Hughton leads to both men going into referee A.W. Grey's book and this seems to calm things down slightly.

David Geddis is doing well in Shaw's absence, denied once by a characteristic charge to the edge of the area by Ray Clemence and then again thwarted, this time by the offside flag after putting a deft pass from Dennis Mortimer into the back of the net. Villa are getting closer though and by the time the Spurs keeper saves an Allan Evans shot from a Kenny Swain free kick, it's clear the

shot-stopper isn't getting the sort of protection he was afforded in his Anfield days.

On the half-hour, joy for Villa but complete embarrassment for keeper Ray. He comes out to claim a Tony Morley cross but the ball goes through his gloves like they are coated with Country Life. The ball lands at Peter Withe's feet and is dispatched into the roof of the net. One nil Villa.

The goal spurs Tottenham on and they regain their Mojo of the earlier exchanges. As half time approaches, neat work between Archibald and Ardiles ends with the ball at Mark Falco's feet, twenty yards out. He tries his luck and despite an athletic dive from Rimmer and it's in. One-one.

Falco, only playing as understudy to the stricken Crooks, is now brimming with confidence and keen to show he can do with his left foot what he can do with his right, he runs on the pass from Tony Galvin and shoots so powerfully that even though Rimmer gets a hand on it, it still goes in. Two-one Spurs.

Mark Falco and David Geddis

With Villa still reeling Falco has another rocket of an effort, rapidly becoming the player of the day, but this time he can't beat our Jimmy.

Things start to look grim for us as captain Dennis Mortimer is forced to limp off and it's down to our sole summer signing, Andy Blair, to fill the breech. Blair's hardly got his second wind when we are back on terms and again Ray Clemence is at the centre of things. Both David Geddis and Peter with have their eyes firmly fixed on a Tony Morley cross, David Geddis takes out Clemence with all the grace of Giant Haystacks and Peter Withe puts the ball into the back of net while the England keeper is still seeing stars and tweeting birds.

From that point, Villa look the team most likely to win, Clemence recovering enough to make saves from Cowans and Des Bremner and we go closest when he can only tip a Bremner drive onto the cross bar.

Gleen Hoddle eventually wakes from his second half slumber late on to set Archibald free but Rimmer is more than capable of dealing with his shot.

Suddenly, it's all over. Honours even. No penalty shoot-outs. The Shield will be shared, which is very nice and all that but not quite the victorious, glory filled end I'd been hoping for.

Still the European adventure is about to start, but before we get to that, there's that long coach journey home. Where are those sarnies me Mom made me?