In tomorrows match day programme, a piece from Lord Attenboroughs son, Michael. They'll also be a minutes appreciation before KO, black armbands worn, and collection buckets for Muscular Dystrophy Campaign, a charity Lord Attenborough was involved in. Chelsea for him began in the early Forties when he started to go out with my mother. Their first dates were standing on the Shed, getting there early to grab a place by a support, so my mum wouldn’t get knocked over. When in ‘47 he needed to get fit quickly for the movie Brighton Rock, he naturally grabbed the chance to train with the players! By ‘52, he and my mother were starring in the first production of The Mousetrap and had it in their contracts that the Saturday matinee started at a time that enabled them to go to the Bridge beforehand! Having become a season-ticket holder he first took me, aged nine, in ‘59. The days of the Sillett brothers and Frank Blunstone, closely followed by debuts for Peter Bonetti and Jimmy Greaves. Then Dave Sexton and the legendary days of Ossie, Hudson and Cooke, by which time dad was a Club Director. That thrilling night in Manchester in 1970 was one of the happiest of his life (and mine!). And those three softies Harris, Hollins and Webb are all friends of ours to this day. Fortunes start to fade. Division Two beckons. Dad and I don’t flinch. Then Ken Bates – and his crusade to save the ground from property developers, fighting over every share for a majority shareholding over Marler Estates. Unlike other CFC directors, Dad did not sell his shares (at great profit) to Marler, but donated them (amounting to just under £1m) to Chelsea. An enclosure for disabled fans was built in his name and he became the club’s Life Vice-President. Now the Roman era. He becomes Life President. José and Chelsea’s first top-flight triumphs since ‘54/55 (which he remembered as if it was yesterday). He and I are in ecstasy! Carlo and the Double! Roberto and the Big One! And finally, of course, the return of the Special One. I’m so thrilled he lived to see it all. Six years ago he suffered a stroke and fell down a flight of stairs. As my mother and I waited for news in the hospital, we (and the doctors) were convinced he would not survive. But survive he did, hauling himself out of hospital, no longer able to read, write, walk or talk properly. His main ambition? To return to Chelsea. The day we brought him back (in a wheelchair) was one of the most emotional of my life. He was back home. For nearly 70 years he lived for Chelsea; for 60 of them, if he was away, he called me at 4.45pm sharp, from wherever he was around the globe, for the result. I adored our time together at the football. He was quite simply my hero, my counsellor, my friend. A life force, never putting himself first, as loving as he was loved.
