Tales From A Home Away From Home

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 24 August 2026

The 2026/27 season was upon us. All the other Premier League games had taken place from Friday to Sunday, leaving just us and our near neighbours Fulham to go. An away game alongside the River Thames at Craven Cottage on a Monday night seemed appropriate considering all the other matches that were to take place in London over the next few weeks. Chelsea are set to play no less than seven consecutive matches in the capital, in league and cup; our first game outside the M25 at Everton will not be until Saturday 17 October. It seems miles away.

So, on this Monday night, everything close, everything to hand, everything in the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham, everything in Fulham, everything in SW6. Everything nice and cosy. There was no need to even change the pre-match meet up; “The Eight Bells” was showing its other side on this occasion, an away pub and not a home one.

Everything was familiar. It was like being home away from home.

At the end of last season, after that depressing defeat at Sunderland, the summer stretched out in front of me, but although the World Cup was followed by many, it wasn’t for me. For the second time in a row, after Qatar in 2022, I boycotted the goings-on in North America. My main area of concern was the pricing structure of the games. How could anyone at FIFA claim that it was just and right to charge such extortionate prices? I was out for that main reason, but there were others too. In a nutshell viewed the tournament, ridiculously expanded to forty-eight games, as out of reach of the common fan. God knows how those from around the world afforded it; my guess is that they would face huge bills to pay off on their return.

The FIFA World Cup 2026 and me would be like ships that passed in the night; one a mega cruise ship, ugly and brutal, churning up the waves as it gouged its way forwards and little old me on a one-man raft fighting the tides.

But then, to my shame, I buckled and decided to cave in, and I watched England vs. Argentina in the semi-final. England lost and I was morally bankrupt. I was not happy with myself for a few days after.

However, with no competition, Frome Town stole a march on my affections during the summer. First, we celebrated the wonderful news that the football club had agreed a two-year deal with the Frome Town Council, meaning that the club was locked-in and able to build for the future. All this just a year after it looked like the club, in its current form, might fold. The first of nine Frome Town games – five pre-season matches and four Southern Premier League games – took place just five miles away at Radstock Town on a beautiful sunny evening, my birthday, on Monday 6 July. I have utterly enjoyed watching my local team play in all these games, and my travels have already taken me to Devon, Worcestershire and Hampshire.

It was so noticeable that the release of Frome’s fixtures took place the day before the England vs. Argentina semi-final, and I was looking forward to the new fixtures one-hundred times more than the game in Atlanta.

As the summer continued, and as Frome began the league season with two wins but then two losses, I found myself well-and-truly entrenched in the Frome Town story, and Chelsea seemed somewhat distant. I was – I am not afraid to admit – a little concerned about my ambivalence. And then, just as I was nearing my place of work at Bowerhill near Melksham at around 5.45am on the day of the Fulham game my mind drifted to me being in the packed Putney End at Craven Cottage, cheering on the team, living every kick of the game, maybe witnessing some lovely skill by Cole Palmer or Joao Pedro, and I was back. I was back in the game.

I shouldn’t have worried about a thing.

Because every little thing was going to be alright.

I worked an early shift and, at 2pm, the familiar faces of Glenn Parkins and Paul Daniels were spotted in the front car park. As we set off to London, we updated each other with our stories from the summer.

The previous season will not sit well in our collective memories. It was a tough grind, with few high spots. There was the inevitable double over Tottenham, but other highlights were rare. My favourite away trip was the one to Wrexham; a new ground, a topsy-turvy game, a trip to the past.

Just before it had begun, of course, we had become World Champions. At the time it did not dawn on me how significant it all was from my timeline perspective.

1905 : Chelsea were formed.

1965 : I was born.

2025 : World Champions on my sixtieth birthday year and the club’s one-hundred and twentieth anniversary.

I liked that.

On the drive to London, we briefly spoke about Chelsea’s chances under new manager Xabi Alonso. Are many of the other main protagonists well-formed teams? I would suggest not. This is an odd period in the history of the topflight of English football. It seems that many teams are “works in progress”, including ours. Although a team from North London are firm favourites, I am tempted to use a phrase from their past to describe the race for this year’s title.

“It’s up for grabs now.”

I am looking at a top four finish; this squad does have huge potential. With a strong start, who knows? 2026/27 is the tenth anniversary of 2016/17 after all.

I met up with Joe from Virginia at ”Koka” on the North End Road; a favourite of mine. He has been a Chelsea supporter for around thirty years and is a good friend. We shared our thoughts of the game ahead over a couple of pepperoni pizzas. I then drove us down to deepest Fulham and tried my best to locate a parking spot equidistant from the ground and the pub. I eventually found a space on Wardo Road. It had been a tough consignment though; I hoped that gaps in our defence were equally scarce later on.

“The Eight Bells” was rammed full of Chelsea, and we were unfortunately not allowed to stand outside with our drinks. The pub was crowded, stifling hot, and I wasn’t unduly happy when PD announced that the lads were about to walk up to Craven Cottage. Just before we left, Tommie from California arrived. I last saw him at Bramall Lane towards the end of 2024/25. He was visiting with both his parents and a mate from home.

It was just after 7pm.

The team had been announced while we were stood in the pub, hopping from one foot to the other to get out of the way of passers-by.

Robert Sanchez

Levi Colwill – Maxence Lacroix – Josh Acheampong

Malo Gusto – Reece James – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Cole Palmer – Joao Pedro – Morgan Rogers

So, debuts for Lacroix and Rogers, but the team had a few surprises.

I was pleased Josh was in, and a big game for him.

Gusto at right wing-back, Reece tucked-in.

“Where’s Caicedo?”

“Not sure about the defence”

We walked through a glade of trees, with the evening sun cutting through the branches to the west over the river, and I am not so sure I have ever seen Bishop’s Park looking so photogenic. I wished that I had packed my SLR to do justice to everything, but I did not fancy risking it, so I was to make do with just my ‘phone for this game.

I can understand why Fulham is high-up on the list of favourite away games.

It didn’t take us too long to reach the familiar turnstiles on Stevenage Road. I said “adios” to Joe who had purchased a ticket in the top tier of their new Riverside Stand. He was able to do this because he had once bought a ticket a while back to a Fulham game and so was in their system. It was as easy as that. He wasn’t a Fulham member or anything. It seems it’s easier to obtain tickets for one club in SW6 and not the other these days.

It was lovely to be among the faithful once again as I slowly edged my way towards section P5. There were “hello mate” acknowledgements to many. I, indeed, was back.

I was in Row H, near the front, and I soon met up with Gal, John and Alan. I had been on my Jack Jones at Sunderland, so it was fantastic to be next to them again. Jason from Swanage was right behind me, Calvin from Brighton was right in front of me. There were waves and nods to many others.

Fantastic.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that because the rake of the terrace steps at Fulham is, like at Selhurst Park, so shallow, I rarely managed to get any decent shots with my SLR camera in any case. Oh well. I just needed to concentrate on other things and not match action. I was sure I’d cope.

It’s a great stadium at Fulham. There’s lots to admire. It’s neat and has its share of unique features. It is, however, still hard to fathom that London’s oldest club has won bugger all since 1879.

Before we knew it, a pre-match song by AC/DC was aired and it seemed totally incongruous. Something by Tommy Steele would have been more appropriate.

Flames and then fireworks were let off into the night in front of Joe and the Riverside Stand to my left, and the two sets of players strode across the pitch from the Cottage in the corner to the dug outs. Sulphur hung in the air.

I took a few photos. I surely couldn’t miss with those.

How strange that the two former Liverpool teammates Xabi Alonso and Álvaro Arbeloa found their way to be managing clubs a mile and a half apart via short stays in charge of arguably the biggest club in the world Real Madrid.

“There’s nowt so queer as football” as nobody has ever said.

The Fulham fans, it seemed, had been given white and black scarves to hold aloft. In front of their Hammersmith End, banners said this :

“HAVE BEEN. WILL BE. ALWAYS ORIGINAl.”

Um, what?

I always liked the fact that Fulham’s old telegram address was “Fulhamish” (Chelsea’s was “Chelstam”) because it conjured up images of a rough-and-tumble amateurish way of doing things, quite befitting the club in the days of Tommy Trinder.

Well, on this night, those banners were plain gibberish.

We stood and waited.

Before the match, the players stood at the centre-circle. An image of Kevin Keegan appeared on the screen above the Hammersmith End.

There was applause even before the referee blew his whistle.

We have lost some special people over the summer.

Bobby Tambling – one of the most genuine and decent human beings that I have ever met – passed away on 3 June. He was such a lovely man that his scoring prowess could well be overlooked. It was a pleasure to know him. He will always be a true Chelsea legend.

Ken Bates – the irascible former Chelsea chairman – passed away on 11 July. I loved the way that Ken stood up for us on so many occasions. Bates and Chelsea were indivisible during his twenty-one years in charge. He fought for our cause and formed the CPO, his greatest ever decision. I still treasure the letter that he wrote to me in the summer of 1982.

Franco Baresi – along with Franz Beckenbauer and Bobby Moore, one of the greatest three central defenders of all-time – passed away on 31 July. I sadly never saw him play, but what a consummate defender. There are numerous stories of players swapping shirts with him after games, and his shirt always used to smell of Armani aftershave rather than the blood, sweat and tears of others.

And, of course, Kevin Keegan, who sadly left us on 20 July. Outside of Chelsea, he was my favourite player growing up. He remains my favourite England international. Not my favourite English player – Osgood, Wilkins, Lampard, Terry – but my favourite player during England games. Does that make sense? How I salivated at the rumours of him joining Chelsea from Hamburg in 1980. I loved his drive, his enthusiasm, his passion. How I loved seeing him play for Southampton in 1981. And then again in those two seasons with Newcastle United when he was regarded as a messiah. I was lucky enough to meet him twice; the second time in the tunnel before a game at Chelsea in 1995. He was so loved by everyone. His death, aged seventy-five, hit me so very hard.

The Fulham and Chelsea supporters clapped non-stop for him. He was the Fulham manager from 1997 to 1999.

RIP.

Eight o’clock approached.

First thoughts?

That kit looks bloody fantastic. What a beautiful shade of royal blue.

“Be even better with white socks, Gal.”

Cole Palmer kicked off, and I spent a few moments taking it all in, the formation, who was where, looking over at Alonso, talking to Gary. As the ball was headed up field by a Chelsea defender, there was a split-second when I thought to myself “which way are we playing?” It was clear that my mind had been working in several different dimensions for a few seconds.

The ball reached Palmer, and in a fluid moment of consummate skill, he played the ball forward to Joao Pedro. A clipped lob over Bernd Leno and the net rippled.

Fackinell.

The Putney End roared. I punched the air. I screamed.

Yes, I was back.

After the dust had settled – “what was that, thirty-seconds, Gal?” – Alan looked over towards me, smiling.

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

We were both back.

And so were Chelsea.

This was a dream start down by the river.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen.”

Then a super loud “One man went to mow.”

I wondered if this was heard on the TV and if some folk, new to us, wondered why on earth we were singing that.

More songs.

“It’s Salomon!”

We dominated the early play but over the course of the first half, both teams had spells. Fulham were especially potent on the break, and the combination of Oscar Bobb and Josh King on their right continually tested us.

Upfront, we were playing with much more speed than before. The front three immediately looked a handful. There were shots from Rogers and Palmer.

This was, mainly, promising stuff.

But Fulham continued to worry us. Long bombs from Leno caused occasional panic.

Gary : “We almost scored too quick.”

Sanchez blocked a shot that was hit straight at him.

On twenty-four minutes, angled passing set King free and he approached where I was standing, no more than twenty-five yards away. A shot on target followed, but I hoped that Sanchez could cope. I only saw heads of those in front, but I heard the roar from the home fans.

Fackinell.

They had tied it at 1-1.

“Did it beat Sanchez the near post, Gal?”

Gal is shorter than me; he didn’t know.

The replay was shown on the screens; the Chelsea fans groaned.

Yep, beaten at the near post.

Bloody hell, Sanchez.

Fulham came at us again. We had to rely on some last-ditch defending. We had drifted badly, like a rowing boat on the Thames with no cox.

On the half-hour, sublime pace from Palmer set up Joao Pedro but his snatched volley flew wide.

Another break and another shot followed.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Efforts on goal at both ends soon tallied up. Fulham certainly looked dangerous and at times our defence looked shaky. I kept saying to myself “it’ll take time for it to gel.”

Another shot from the home team.

Gary : “They’ve had more chances than us.”

Me : They have.”

And with that insightful dialogue completed, just five seconds later Palmer beautifully set up Lacroix who had steamed ahead and in turn pulled the ball back for Rogers to steady himself and blast home.

GET IN.

The payers celebrated and the Chelsea crowd too.

A version of the “Just Can’t Get Enough / Timo Werner” chant, adapted for the scoring-debutant, was aired and lasted well into the half-time break.

Palmer whistled a shot narrowly past the post.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.”

All was good in the Putney End; we were 2-1 up at the break.

However, I did sense that there might well be more goals on show in the second forty-five minutes.

“This could end up 3-3, Gal.”

Soon into the second period, Palmer raced through past various Fulhamish defenders but his effort was wide (I think – I could not see.)

Just after, on forty-nine minutes, a quick move from Sanchez to Rogers to Joao Pedro, who waited for Palmer on the overlap.

He moved the ball on and drew the ‘keeper. The crowd roared. It was 3-1. No, I didn’t see the goal.

Thankfully the celebrations took place in front of me – on the run in, I loved the “cold” Palmer celebrations from Rogers and Reece – and my phone went into bloody tourist overdrive.

Some turned out to be OK.

“OH XABI ALONSO. OH XABI ALONSO.”

Sadly, just five minutes later it was 3-2. Sanchez blocked a first effort Timothy Castagne but the ball looped back for Gonzalo García to head home.

3-2.

Blimey.

On sixty-five minutes, Alonso made some subs.

A debut for Pep Chavarria who replaced Hato and Enzo Fernandez replaced Lavia.

Yes, there were boos for Enzo; mainly from the home end, but a few from within our support.

I quickly nailed my colours to the wall.

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

There were many more cheers than jeers.

The game continued on, and it became a little nervy.

More substitutions followed.

76 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gusto.

82 minutes : a debut for Geovany Quenda who replaced Morgan Rogers.

83 minutes : Estevao for Palmer.

There were efforts at both ends of the pitch and we had a goal called-back for offside after Quenda strayed too far forward before releasing Joao Pedro who found the net.

There was a massive sigh of relief at the end of the four added minutes.

Phew.

I soon made my way out of the packed stand and I spotted Tommie with his parents; they had loved it.

I walked back to the car, aching all over. I had been on my feet for four hours. This football lark sure takes it out of you.

I picked up PD and Parks at 10.30pm on Finlay Road and I eventually made it home at 1.15am.

It was too tight a game for me to fully enjoy it, and our defence needs tightening up. Sanchez needs a whole book written about him.

Next up, the trips to London continue.

Thursday : Chelsea vs. Luton Town.

Saturday : Chertsey Town vs, Frome Town.

Sunday : Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.

I will see some of you somewhere.

Walking Ahead To Season 2026/27

Fulham vs. Chelsea

Kevin Keegan RIP

The First Nine Games Of My Season

Radstock Town vs. Frome Town

Buckland Athletic vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Worthing

Frome Town vs. Salisbury

Frome Town vs. Weymouth

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town

Frome Town vs. Evesham United

Havant And Waterlooville vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Gosport Borough

Tales From A Weary End To The Season

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Sunderland vs. Chelsea : 24 May 2026.

“World champions but.”

I wonder if this colloquial phrase was used by any natives of the North-East as Chelsea’s visit to the Stadium of Light neared. With both teams seeking a win to finish the season on a high, and a potential Europa League place in 2026/27, I wonder if a Sunderland supporter dismissed our chances of a win against the Black Cats, only to be reprimanded by a friend who, looking at the undoubted talent in our team, and the events of last July, piped-up to remind them that Chelsea are, indeed, World Champions.

“Chelsea are rubbish, man.”

“Hadaway, they are World Champions but.”

This momentous weekend had started early. I just about managed to finish off the Tottenham blog on Thursday evening before grabbing a modicum of sleep. I was up at 3.30am and picked up Salisbury Steve at PD’s house in Frome at 5am. This was to be a bank holiday weekend, and I needed to avoid any traffic hold-ups.

I drove out to Beckington to take the A36 to Bath and then the road north and soon saw some bloody magpies, again, at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill. This obsession was getting silly.

Two magpies, though.

Obviously, I looked on this as a token of good luck.

We then had a little in-car discussion about black cats and debated whether it was good or bad luck for black cats to cross your path. I always thought that they were bad luck. I had always presumed that this nickname evolved when Sunderland moved out of Roker Park and needed to discard their “Roker Men” moniker and chose “Black Cats” as a new nickname, since the team would bring bad luck on other teams. However, it all seemed too contrived for my liking.

Anyway, we would be venturing into the land of Newcastle magpies and Sunderland black cats, and it would hopefully be a weekend to relax with mates, and to unwind a little. This has been a struggle of a season.

For the first few hours, The Chuckle Bus was awash with laughs and giggles, stories and tales, but everything then settled down. The passengers occasionally drifted off. I drove on.

Rather than the usual and monotonous drive up the M1 and A1, I fancied a change and hoped PD and Steve would too; I stayed on the M5 and then hit the M6 all the way to Carlisle. This enabled me to stop off at Tebay, my favourite services in the UK, where I indulged in a full breakfast that gloriously included haggis, black pudding and bubble. The scenery was indeed spectacular with the mountains of the Lake District visible to the west.

Then, the A69 east and into Newcastle, where the three of us were staying at a house that was close to St. James’ Park. On the drive in, we stopped at “The Denton” and then “The Fox & Hounds” to soak up the time until the digs’ check-in time of 2pm was reached.

After a quick change and freshen up, we embarked on a six-pub tour of Gateshead, mirroring the smaller crawl that we did just over a year ago.

“The Lock & Quay” on the river with amazing views of the bridges, but also a boorish rugby team from Bristol on tour.

“Axis” in the railway quarter at the top of the hill, and we just about coped with some difficult craft lagers.

“Microbar” close by, a return visit, and a lovely chat with Alan, a Gateshead supporter who had flown down to Bristol to see “The Heed’s” game at Yeovil over the winter.

“Station East”, another return visit, and we spent some time here, where we met two young Sunderland supporters, Kai and Rachel, and listened to a seventy-seven-year-old musician belt out some cracking songs. We were joined at this pub by Dave who is a regular at virtually all Chelsea games and has not missed a home game since 1994.

Kai told us a true shaggy dog story about a friend who raced greyhounds. This dog was a flier and showed great promise. Before its first race, though, the nefarious owner wanted to play tricks. So, he fed the dog Mars bars, which the dog lapped up, to dampen its speed so that the odds would drift for a second race.

This trick didn’t work.

It won.

The owner was confused but obviously pleased that the dog performed so well despite being penalized. So, they let the dog eat normal food, put lots of money on it, but it finished last.

So, they were confused what to do.

In the third race, out came the Mars bars, and the dog won again.

By now, the dog had earned the nickname “The Mars Bar Kid” and although Kai’s story continued, by now we were howling so much that we weren’t paying much attention.

“Another Budvar please, barman.”

Both youngsters were in their mid-twenties and so had not seen Sunderland play in Europe. Kai virtually pleaded with me to let Sunderland win on the Sunday. It’s hard to believe that a club with the magnitude of Sunderland had only previously enjoyed one season in Europe as a reward for their 1-0 FA Cup win in 1973 against Leeds United.

I was digging in though; I have never wanted to see Chelsea lose a game, and I wasn’t going to start here. I was looking for a win on Sunday, no doubts. There was talk of us having a year off from Europe to re-set and refresh, but so many of us love the European away trips.

“The Central” was close by, another return visit, and this time we made it to the rooftop terrace. Alas the view was not of the river and Newcastle, but of the rail tracks and Gateshead.

“The Grey Nag’s Head” was our final call, another return visit from last year, and I cannot deny nor confirm that a rendition of “Rotterdam (Or Anywhere)” by a female pub singer was hijacked by the four of us.

It had been a splendid night.

On the Saturday morning, we rested well.

But there were old friends to meet, and hopefully new places to hit.

At about 2pm, the three of us started off at “The Slug & Lettuce” on the quayside, a favourite for many years, and we had a bite to eat, our first food since Tebay. Here we were joined by Jimmy the Greek, Ian and Ian’s son Bobby.  

After a few hours, we made our way to “The Bridge Tavern” which sits right under the span of the Tyne Bridge. We had not visited this one for a few years. It was here that Jimmy spoke about his one game for England schoolboys. We really liked this pub, dark and quiet. However, our peace would not last too long; we were joined at our table by a bevy of local Geordie women on a sixtieth birthday pub crawl.

Then, next door to “Akenside Traders”, a very familiar bar in the epicentre of the quayside, but it was surprisingly quiet for a change. By now our entourage was roaring with laughter virtually every time one of us spoke. Good times.

Next, over the road to “The Crown Posada” at around 7.30pm, the evening racing on. This is a classic Tyneside bar, narrow but with a high ceiling, leather seats and gorgeous stained-glass windows. We were joined here by Karl, originally from London, but now living on Tyneside. His local was the first bar we frequented on the Friday, out in the west of the city.

At around 8pm, we walked a few yards up the hill to “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, a big favourite and packed with locals and visitors alike. Here, the final two friends joined us. Johnny Twelve and Jenny Dozen flew in from California and soon entered the spirit of the night. This was Jenny’s first visit to the Loony Toon. As I posted on Facebook –

‘Seeing my mates sing along to “Dancing Queen” takes my love for them to another level. Howay.’

We decided to hit one last location before calling it a night and caught an Uber up the steep hill to “Stack” on Pilgrim Street. This cavernous bar was a perfect location for us to continue drinking and singing to one dodgy song after the other.

At about midnight, we called it a night, and we made our way back to our respective residences.

The last matchday of season 2025/26 soon arrived.

The six of us hurriedly met up at “The Beehive” on the Bigg Market in Newcastle at around 11.30am. Thankfully I was nursing only the slightest of hangovers and was able to slowly drink a pint of “Cruzcampo” but I knew that this would not be a day of excess.

There had been two consecutive days and nights “on the ale” in Gateshead and Newcastle on Friday and Saturday, and with a long drive home for me on the Monday, Sunday was all about seeing out the football season without too much alcohol. In fact, that tasty pint in “The Beehive” would be my only drink that day, save for a couple of “Diet Cokes” that don’t really count.

We took a train from Newcastle Central but we didn’t land in Sunderland until around 1.30pm. As we headed up Fawcett Street, I heard a familiar voice.

“We must stop meeting like this.”

It was Stuart, from Kilmersdon, the village so close to my village of Mells in Somerset. I had bumped into him outside Anfield, and at Fulham Broadway, in the past few weeks. And here he was again. We looked up and saw some other friends at a table outside a cheap and cheerful café. If this was Sunderland’s pavement society, then so be it. We said “hello” to Maureen, Gerry, Paul and Scott, took a quick look at the menus, and decided to head inside for a bite to eat.

On our last visit to Sunderland on a cold midweek night in December 2016, we had found a lovely pub near the city centre called “The Dun Cow” where we spent many hours among friends. The intention always was to visit this lovely Victorian establishment on this trip, the last game of the 2025/26 season, before heading over the new Keel Crossing, a pedestrianised bridge that traverses the River Wear. It was to be a little combination of both old and new.

Sadly, we ran out of time to do either.

“The Dun Cow” would have to wait until next season.

“Wendy’s Place” was our new base camp.

This would be my fifth visit to the Stadium of Light. Sadly, I never made it to Roker Park; a fact that saddens me.

The first match was in December 1999 when a Kevin Phillips hat-trick helped defeat us 1-4. Then, another “last game of the season” match in May 2009 when we won 3-2. This was an important match for me since it represented the first time in my life that I had attended all thirty-eight league games. In May 2016, ironically after the “Battle of Stamford Bridge” game with Tottenham the previous midweek, just like on this occasion, but we lost 2-3. Then, in December 2016, under Antonio Conte, a narrow 1-0 win and when a stupendous save from Thibaut Courtois extended our run of wins.

I wolfed down some brunch at “Wendy’s Place” and we then stepped out into the sunshine. The Stadium of Light was only a fifteen-minute walk away. We spotted the dark blue slither of the North Sea just a short distance to the east. The former site of Roker Park was close by.

A kind local took a team photo.

We strode over the green Wearmouth Bridge, and the Keel Bridge looked impressive to our left.

Both Ian and I spotted the very stylised “Welcome to Sunderland” signage on the south stand. As far as I could remember, this is a new feature, and the font reminded me of the typeface used on the cover of ‘sixties football programmes. I liked it a lot.

I took a few photos, then clasped my pub camera in my palm, hiding it from the steward, and was in at 3.15pm. The flights of stairs almost wiped me out, but I made it to the top tier intact. My seat was in the second row, and I slumped in my seat. For some reason, it felt like the toils of a long season had left me low on energy. I usually stand at away games, but on this occasion, I knew I would be watching from a seated position.

I soon spotted that the Chelsea players were oddly doing their pre-match shuttles at the other end of the stadium. Had they had enough of us? Were they hiding from potential scorn?

For this very last match of the season, Calum McFarlane chose this team, and I again spent the opening minutes attempting to ascertain the formation. The word in the top tier was of three at the back.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – Caicedo – Fernandez – Cucurella

Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Before the entrance of the teams, not many seats in the Chelsea section were unused, and this pleased me. Red and white mosaics were held up, and in the single-tiered stand to my left, a couple of cats’ eyes peeked through a sea of black mosaics. A variety of songs were played through the PA that included “I can’t help falling in love with you” by Elvis Presley and the place erupted.

“Wise man say…”

“Dance of the nights” by Sergei Prokofiev also got an airing. It was stirring stuff. The place was rocking. European football was up for grabs, and the locals were infected by a fever.

The game kicked off with us in blue / blue / white attacking the other end. I moved down a row to sit in the front next to Lance and was happy I could sit.

“Must be getting old.”

Lance was impressed with the tumultuous noise.

“Imagine if Stamford Bridge was like this each game”

I was happy that I had correctly identified the formation, although in the first portion of the game, Gusto appeared to move inside to give solidity to the midfield.

There was noise from our section, but I was feeling adrift and found it hard to get motivated to sing too. This annoyed me.

Cole Palmer was set up by Pedro Neto, but his slow drive was easily saved. The home team came at us, and a feature of the first fifteen minutes was a succession of long throw-ins aimed at our six-yard box from the Sunderland left. By hook or by crook, we survived each ball that was launched, despite knock-ons and bobbles, and limbs stretched at awkward angles. A couple of shots flew at the Chelsea goal. Robert Sanchez saved one after a rapid break up our left flank, Enzo blocked the other. On sixteen minutes, there was a Marc Cucurella error near his touchline, but Levi Colwill reacted quickly, covered and booted the ball away for a corner.

Just after, a low ball fizzed around our box but Sunderland were just unable to get a touch.

Phew.

Nilson Angulo, whoever he is, let fly with a rasper from outside the box. The home team were on top, and Chelsea weren’t in it.

On twenty-five minutes, with the Chelsea support quietening, the ball reached Trai Hume after a long punt and a headed knock-on. The Sunderland player calmly despatched a fine strike low into the corner of Sanchez’ goal using the outside of his boot. This goal came as no real surprise. I stared sternly at the floor for ages, not wanting to look up and see the Sunderland players celebrating nor the home fans going doo lally.

There was a VAR check for offside, but the goal stood.

Sunderland still pushed on, and we looked so tired and anaemic in possession. It honestly looked like we were the first professional team in the world to practice walking football in a normal game.

“Move for each other!”

The teams traded a couple of late chances – a Joao Pedro header drifted limply wide – and at the break I barked out “disappointing Chelsea.”

And it had been deeply disappointing.

To make matters worse, we heard that Tottenham were 1-0 up at home to Everton.

Fackinell.

Sunderland started the second half with a frenzy of attacking intent; they were on fire. Brian Brobbey, who had been their main threat, slammed a shot at goal but the outstretched leg of Sanchez came to our rescue as it often has this season.  However, in the very next attack the ball was played in from Enzo Le Fee to Brobbey, whose mishit shot across the face of the goal found the unfortunate Gusto, whose wild swipe resulted in the ball crashing unceremoniously into the goal.

We were 0-2 down and our hopes of European football were looking so slim.

McFarlane’s response was to replace Hato with Reece James and to move the troops into a more familiar “four at the back” shape.

On fifty-six minutes, bizarrely, we were back in it. Neto shimmied and poked the ball square to Palmer, some twenty-five yards out, and our talisman took aim with a low strike. To my complete surprise, and everyone else’s no doubt, the ball crept in at the near post after the ‘keeper Robin Roefs could only divert the ball in.

My reaction surprised me too. There was no half-hearted cheer here; my guttural roar was full-blooded and – call me silly – I was happy that this was my reaction. I loved that after 1,557 Chelsea games, in a tiring end-of-season match, a simple goal could illicit this response from me.

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Was the comeback on? We all hoped so.

Well, Chelsea being Chelsea, sadly the self-destruct button is never too far away. I have to be honest; I did not clearly see the foul by Wesley Fofana on Wilson Isidor on sixty-two minutes. But this was a second yellow on the day, so off he went, to much barracking from the travelling Chelsea support. It is clearly that of all of Chelsea’s current players, Fofana is one of the least liked for footballing and non-footballing reasons.

While McFarlane restructured things by bringing on Trevoh Chalobah for Neto, I immediately thought back to that game at the same venue ten years ago in May 2016 – the last but one away match of that season – and how John Terry was sent off in the second half of that game.

Against a backdrop of negative noise from the Chelsea support – boos, swearing, catcalls, abuse – bizarrely we seemed to play a tad better with just ten men.

But the level of vitriol annoyed me at best and disgusted me at worse. Everyone has been frustrated with our “levels” this season, but I had to wonder if some within our support enjoy abusing players more than they do supporting them.

Within a few yards of where I sat, I heard venomous abuse at individual players from one side of me, while on the other a hyperventilating supporter dished out “you fucking cunt” on many occasions to one player, while standing alongside his daughter who could have been no more than nine.

This stirred up some hideous reactions inside me; sometimes my fellow supporters just make me feel like giving all of this up.

To repeat, for the millionth time :

“Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.”

Good times and bad.

I am not sure if we picked on individual players in that lacklustre season of 2015/16, but I suspect not. In fairness, we were league champions the previous year and I think reputations of players were respected. But that was a shocking season too. There was certainly a memory of the phrase of players “downing tools” under Jose Mourinho in the depths of that winter, and it seems that phrase is uttered with annoying regularity these days too.

This day at Sunderland came on the back of the altercations I had with fellow fans at Everton and at a recent home game too. It’s been a sobering and sombre period.

Out on the pitch, there was a mesmerizing balletic turn from Palmer, who I thought never stopped trying, and an equally beguiling run deep into the Sunderland box. Alas, a cross was blocked.

On eighty-five minutes, two substitutions were made.

Liam Delap for Moises Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Malo Gusto.

Two minutes after, the two substitutes combined as Acheampong set up Delap, but the shot was blocked. Then, deep into extra-time, fine hold-up play from the much-maligned Delap, but after doing the hard part, once he turned to pass back to a teammate, he could only find a Sunderland player.

Ugh.

There was a massive ten minutes of injury time, but despite a few attacks at the goal down below, I was not confident of us obtaining a probably undeserved equaliser.

I had commented to Lance that it felt like the season had finished on Tuesday night against Tottenham.

And perhaps it had.

This was a tired performance from us, and – I hate to say it – a tired performance from me too. There were shouts from me but not with the same regularity as at most away games. Maybe the season had finally taken its toll.

With the final whistle close, I spotted Ian and Bobby heading for the exit. I thought it wise to follow them. I felt guilty about leaving before the end of a game but as I reached the concourse, the final whistle blew.

There would be no UEFA competition for us next season.

We all met up outside, and with the moon visible high in the sky way above the stadium, we caught the train back to Newcastle while the locals – the Wearsiders, the Mackems, the Roker Men, the Black Cats, whatever they call themselves – celebrated the win and a cherished European place.

There was a final pint in “The Mile Castle” near the main train station and it took our total to sixteen pubs in the three days. I have to say that the nights out on Friday and Saturday were too of the funniest, and most joyous, and most relaxing back-to-back nights I can remember.

We met up with a few more faces. On the drive up on Friday, I had mentioned to the lads if a friend of ours – Nick – had the record of seeing Chelsea Football Club more times than anyone else in history. He has been a regular since the early ‘fifties. Luckily, we bumped into him and his son Robbie in this pub, so I was able to ask him his thoughts on this. He wasn’t so sure. He said he missed a fair few in the ‘eighties and mentioned a few others that might well hold the record, the late Ron Hockings being one of them. Our mutual friend Allie was around 90 games shy of Nick’s current total of around 2,500. Of course, Cathy must be in contention too.

On a personal note, I was happy to record my fourth straight season of not missing a single Chelsea league game; 152/152.

My total number of matches attended this season was down on last season, however, when I reached the never to be beaten 100. This season I have seen Chelsea 52 times and Frome Town 23 times; a total of 75.

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

Talking of which, a word of heartfelt thanks to the many friends and acquaintances who continue to dip into this blog and keep the numbers relatively healthy. Although total views are down on 2025, I have already witnessed 13,538 visitors in the first five months of this year compared to 24,129 in the whole of last year.

This of labour love costs me around £300 per year to keep it going, but I see no reason why I can’t keep adding to the current total of over 2.25 million words. It’s only the equivalent of a pint each week.

More numbers.

I often heard that 2025/26 was our worst season in recent memory, but these numbers would suggest not.

CHELSEA 2015/16

Won 12

Drew 14

Lost 12

50 Points.

CHELSEA 2025/26

Won 14

Drew 10

Lost 14

52 Points.

But it has been a mad season, eh? It has tested many of us, but many of us still find it hard to stop going.

I think it could easily be summed up by this simple phrase.

“World champions, but.”

Right, I am off to buy some Mars bars in case Xabi Alonso’s new team needs an added kick.

See you in August.

Tales From A Nervous Night

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 19 May 2026.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham. It gets the pulses racing, eh?

It’s always a key fixture every single season against “that lot”, but this one could have been so much bigger, and so much better. If only we could have been able to relegate them on this fourteenth anniversary of “Munich Day.”

If only they hadn’t picked up sufficient points in recent weeks…if only.

If is a big word.

I was up bright and early for another 6am to 2pm shift which would enable me to reach London in good time for the 8.15pm kick-off. After my spate of bad luck occurrences leading up to Saturday’s Cup Final, I wasn’t too happy about seeing seven individual magpies within a three-quarter of a mile stretch of road at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill between Frome and Beckington at about 5.30am.

Seven of the buggers!

You could say I was spitting feathers.

But maybe I would have been more worried if I had seen seven cockerels.

As the morning developed, I contemplated the potential enormity of the day. Should Manchester City draw at Bournemouth, Arsenal would become champions for the first time since 2004. If Tottenham were to draw at Stamford Bridge, they would relegate West Ham United, bar a mathematical miracle on the last day of the season.

This could be a day of destiny.

All of this was happening with the backdrop of Chelsea Football Club naming Xabi Alonso as our new manager – not coach, an important difference – on the Sunday after the FA Cup Final. In some ways, it felt that we did not deserve him, what with the way we have ridiculously hired and fired coaches over the last four years. It has been a comedy show, and we have collectively suffered from the constant laughter aimed our way from outside the club.

Alonso is one of Europe’s most respected new coaches. We have done very well to nab him, especially since I am sure that many Liverpool supporters were eying him up as a successor to the unloved Arne Slot.

When I came into work on the Monday, it was noticeable that the several Liverpool supporters in the office, rather than engaging with me about our loss in the Cup Final, were avoiding eye contact.

I think we all know why.

I thought about going up to each one of them and asking them a question :

“So, do I pronounce his name Zavvy, or Zabbi?”

But I resisted the thrill of seeing their teeth grinding and their eyes blubbing.

I worked an early shift, and took PD and Parky along the for the ride as per normal. At Reading Services, after Saturday’s escapade, I was relieved to see that I had used pump #9.

Phew.

I made my way into London and dipped into an Italian for a quick bite on Vanston Place.

The pre-match was spent in the packed and stifling “Tommy Tucker” where we were joined by surprise guests Foxy – and his amazing technicolour haircut – and Drew from Dundee, and George from Czechia. Talk was equally concerned with our stay on Tyneside & Wearside at the weekend as it was with the evening’s game. I was so hot that I only lasted an hour in the pub. I was inside the stadium at 7.15pm, a full hour before kick-off. At that stage in the evening, only a few hundred souls were inside.

Outside at CFCUK stall, I had briefly chatted to CFC writers Marco and Tim; they agreed with me that we were ridiculously lucky to have been able to acquire Alonso.

I chatted with Big John about that beautiful game against Tottenham in 2016 when we came back from trailing 0-2 at the break to draw 2-2 and to deny them their first league title since 1961. How can that be ten years ago?

John said that the game “had it all.”

I replied : “Yes it did, including three thousand miserable Tottenham pricks.”

Unfortunately, both Alan and Clive could not attend this one, but it was a pleasure to welcome Daryl to The Sleepy Hollow who had picked up Alan’s ticket late on. I can’t remember the last time we had watched a game next to each other; maybe at a New York Mets game in 2015.

The stadium filled, the players did their pre-match runs and stretches down below us, and with about ten minutes to go to kick-off, there was a rumble of “Oh when the Spurs…” in the rear reaches of the lower tier of the away section.

Joao Pedro was presented with his “Player of the Year” award; he would have received my vote for sure.

Calum McFarlane decided upon this eleven, and we found it odd that neither Levi Colwill nor Joao Pedro were featured.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Hato – Cucurella

Caicedo – Santos

Neto – Palmer – Fernandez

Delap

The minutes ticked by, and the seats that were unused around me thankfully filled.

The usual fizzbombs, flames and flashes.

Then “The Liquidator” and I joined in with the “We Hate Tot’num” chant which was louder than bombs.

But a slight concern and a slight worry; oddly Tottenham chose to wear their all-yellow away kit, with a navy yoke, and it brought back instant horrific memories of their visit in November 1978.

They had risen to the First Division after one year in the second flight in 1977/78 and shocked the football world with the acquisition of Argentina’s two World Cup Winners Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa. Despite seeing Tottenham at home in 1974, I wanted to see them again in only my tenth game at Stamford Bridge. It was a supremely hot ticket; these two signings had captured the imagination of the entire football world, and I couldn’t wait to see Ardiles, especially.  Stamford Bridge was stretched to its limit with a gate of 41,594. Chelsea went ahead with an overhead goal from Tommy Langley, but to my sadness the visitors – in an all-yellow kit with navy trim on their chest – came back to win 3-1. The aggro inside Stamford Bridge before the game had been the stuff of legend, and the whole arena was a bowl of animosity. The visitors from N17 packed out the entire northern terrace and their loud chant of “We are Tottenham from the Lane” would haunt me for years.

The game kicked off and thankfully there was no modern-day equivalent of Osvaldo Ardiles nor Glenn Hoddle in this Tottenham team.

Both teams had a few early approaches into each other’s penalty boxes. It was ridiculous how my mind’s eye played ridiculous tricks with my brain; Robert Sanchez was dressed in all orange, with his protective cap, and the Cech vibes were uncanny.

Both Daryl and I were upset with the widespread booing of Conor Gallagher; some of our fans are absolute fools.

Conor did not want to leave Chelsea. His whole family are supporters of the club. When it was clear that the hierarchy wanted to cash in on him – and I suspect that this action acted as a major factor in Pochettino leaving – he must have felt betrayed. He chose Atletico Madrid when Tottenham, allegedly, first came sniffing. I bet my life that he hated signing for them.

I felt for him.

I said to Daryl “he’s no Gordon Durie, after all.”

Indeed, he wasn’t. Durie wanted to head north, closer to his family in Scotland, so imagine our surprise and disgust when he didn’t choose the north, but the North Circular instead. His move to Tottenham in the summer of 1991 is still infamous thirty-five years later. Never has a former Chelsea player been as vilified by us as he was at White Hart Lane in the August of that year.

A cross from Tottenham right was deflected just wide of our goal by Jorrel Hato. Not long after, Mathys Tel – whoever he is – met a cross with a diving header and at first glance it looked like Sanchez had performed a fantastic reflex save at his post. The replay showed that he did not lay a finger on it; we heaved a sigh of relief.

There was a shot from Cole Palmer that curled at the Shed End goal, but the wonderfully named Antonin Kinsky was able to palm away.

It is not known if he was wearing Kinsky boots.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was floated up to Palmer who had drifted to the right. I saw that he needed help, so yelped out

“Go on support him.”

With that Pedro Neto raced forward to carry out my instructions perfectly.

Neto drifted inside and then played the ball to Enzo, who – without hesitation – decided to take aim and shoot at goal. The ball was hit from thirty yards out and flew into the net’ dropping into the corner at the last moment.

How we celebrated.

The place erupted.

I had taken a photo of the shot but it’s way too blurred to share here; the subsequent photos of his euphoric match down to the corner flag are a tad better.

This was fantastic. We were up 1-0 against the old enemy, and life was suddenly good again.

The visitors tried their best to get into promising positions, but our defenders were solid and tenacious when needed. To be honest, I thought we bossed the middle part of the half. Joas Acheampong, who has lots of admirers within our support, made some fine tackles and blocks. The pugnacious Cucurella, on the other flank, too.

I took two photos of a free kick that was awarded to us out on our left. First, Enzo standing over the ball focussing on the task ahead, and my photo in focus too. Second, the ball rebounding in a blur off the crossbar, with Kinsky beaten. Alas, too blurred to share. It again needed a TV replay for us to realise a ‘keeper had not managed to get a hand on the ball and that the goal’s frame saved the defending team.

The Tottenham support was gloriously quiet.

Tel was playing with one thigh ridiculously exposed, and it looked like he had tucked one leg of his shorts into his Y-fronts. I wondered if this was his thing, his superstition; maybe a little like how Wayne Grettzky used to tuck his NHL jersey in on one side.

The visitors enjoyed a fair proportion of the ball in the first half but didn’t look composed in possession. They rarely troubled us.

Daryl told me how he changed trains on his way in from Essex at Tower Hill, and that there were no eastbound trains on the District Line for a while. Apparently, a voice on the Tannoy announced that there was a points failure at West Ham.

I still don’t know if he was serious or not.

Late on in the half, a lone strike from Palmer whistled wide of the far post.

At the break, the consensus was that we had played well enough and that Tottenham were poor. Gallagher had not really been too involved. Out of interest, we had heard early in the evening that Bournemouth were beating City 1-0, and although this news did not go down too well, just imagine what the N17 contingent made of it; not only was their game going against them, but Arsenal were close to gaining their first league title for over two decades.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

Tottenham had more of the ball, and their supporters reacted with a sustained period of noise. Their small selection of songs was aired; you know the ones.

Their infamous “Yid Army” chant was loud, and I still feel uneasy hearing it.

Richarlison was involved in two half-chances and for a while, we had seemed to shrink into ourselves a little. However, as the noise from the away section grew, I was really pleased and proud with the way that the home crowd responded so loudly.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I made my own special little contribution.

“Get in the game Chels.”

Someone must have heard me; we dug in and reacted nicely.

We were on the back foot no longer.

On sixty-seven minutes, we gathered possession from an errant Tottenham pass and Palmer was able to roam forward into lots of space; I picked up my camera, sixth-sensing a special moment. I caught his run on film. The ball was played out to Neto on the right, and he spotted two Chelsea bodies at the back post. Perhaps the cross was aimed at Delap, but Enzo was able to knock the ball back towards Santos as it fell short.

He swiped at the ball, I clicked my camera, Kinsky was beaten and the net rippled.

The place roared and so did I. I jumped up to the platform to my left and punched the air with both fists. I then realised that the scorer was running towards Enzo, down below us, and my camera clicked into action.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Our goal arrived at just the right time.

For a few moments, Stamford Bridge resembled the Stamford Bridge of old, and I buzzed at the greatness of it all.

If only all atmospheres could be like the one enveloping our famous old ground.

Just after, Tottenham made a triple substitution that included James Maddison and his COVID hair.

Sadly, on seventy-three minutes, a ball came in from the Tottenham right and there was a smart back-heel – from afar, it wasn’t unlike that of Semenyo at Wembley – that played in Richarlison. Both Daryl and I were hoping that an off-side flag would be raised, but no. The former Everton man slotted it home.

The lead was now slender; 2-1. It meant that if Tottenham scored one more, they would be safe from relegation.

A substitution was made on seventy-four minutes; Trevoh Chalobah for Acheampong.

What followed was a super-nervy period of over twenty minutes, taking in the seven minutes of injury time. Rarely have I felt so consumed by nerves and anxiety.

Elsewhere, Manchester City scored a ridiculously late equaliser, but the damage was done; Arsenal were Champions.

Yawn.

This was the match that counted.

On eighty-one minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced Fofana.

In an almost comedic moment, Delap was put through on goal in a race with a defender, but he too easily brought his hands up and blatantly pushed his combatant. What a bloody fool. He was booked.

This is a familiar Delap ploy. I remembered similar actions at Wrexham and Wembley; coming on as a late substitute, his first actions in both games were to manhandle an opponent with a shove in the back.

Pathetic.

A friend in the US soon sent me a WhatsApp message:

“Chris. Serious question. Have you ever seen a lower IQ player at Chelsea than Delap?”

I didn’t reply immediately but soon told him; “nerves in tatters.”

Three more substitutions took place on eighty-nine minutes, and I seriously doubted if this was wise.

Alejandro Garnacho for Neto.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

Shim Mheuka for Delap.

We were now Delapidated, but hopefully not dilapidated.

The game continued, and there seemed to be attack after attack on our goal. Thankfully all the Tottenham moves came to nothing, but we had to rely on a strong Hato block on Maddison near the goal to preserve our lead.

The final whistle was met with relief by everyone, and I soon posted on “Facebook.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

And nothing illustrates this more than our almost inhuman dominance over Tottenham Hotspur, especially in SW6, over the past thirty-six years.

I walked out past the Osgood statue, I remembered the #9 pump at the services, and I over-heard a fellow fan utter that it was a “good-ish game” and I knew exactly what he meant.

It wasn’t always top quality, and it was contested between two average teams.

Well, one average team.

But it seriously didn’t matter. We had beaten Tottenham. Their one point for safety had evaporated in the evening air. Our mighty home record against them continued unabashed.

But, oh my nerves.

See you on Sunday on Wearside.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur.

League Games @ Stamford Bridge.

1/12/90 to 19/5/26

W – 23

D – 11

L – 1

Tales From Somerset To Wembley

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 16 May 2026.

Who was confident before our FA Cup Final set-to with Manchester City? Anybody? I know I wasn’t. I put our likelihood of success at the 25% mark. I remarked to a few people that it was an odd feeling to be such an underdog in a Cup Final. And when I mean Cup Final, I mean the FA Cup Final, it’s the only Cup Final that you can get away with by just saying “cup final” in the UK; that’s for the overseas readers.

You must go back to 1994 for a similar set of circumstances. I would probably have put our chances at 25% in that one too, against a Manchester United team in their first real flush of pomp under Ferguson. Our defeat came as no real surprise, but it was just the strength of defeat – plus those penalties by Cantona – that hurt so much. It wasn’t a 0-4 game. Deep down, I silently feared some sort of hideous repeat.

I was to travel to London more in hope and expectation, and it was this phrase that was rebounding around the large void between my ears as I got ready on Cup Final morning.

It was an early start for me; thank goodness I set the alarm at the correct time this week. I was out of the house at 5.50am and was headed to collect Paul at 6am. As I drove through my sleeping Somerset village, I was met with a scene of arboreal beauty, with huge trees dominating the village’s main road. I decided to stop as I approached Rectory Corner and take a photo of the peaceful scene ahead of me and post it on Facebook as a scene setter for the day’s journey into London. It would be a day that would provide subtle and not so subtle variations between rural and urban vistas of England.

I captioned it appropriately.

“From Somerset to Wembley, we’ll keep the Blue Flag flying high.”

This song was born in that lovely 1993/94 cup run, and it is still sung triumphantly at key games to this day. Of course, that rain-drenched match was my first-ever Cup Final, coming a full twenty-four years after our previous one in 1970. It was the victory over Leeds United that was probably the catalyst for my support of the team, though the actualities are lost in time. In those intervening twenty-four years, we stood to one side as umpteen other teams played at Wembley in cup finals and wondered if we would ever get the chance to attend this most glorious of occasions. No less than eight London teams – Arsenal, Crystal Palace, Fulham, Queens Park Rangers, Tottenham Hotspur, West Ham United and Wimbledon – all played in cup finals from 1971 to 1993, whereas our beloved Chelsea did not.

You can tell it still hurts, right?

Without thinking, the photo that I took of Mells in Somerset on the way to London depicts the house – if you were to zoom in, it would be to the right of the cars, and opposite “The Talbot” pub sign – where I saw my first-ever FA Cup Final on TV way back in 1972 when I was six. It was my maternal grandparents’ house; the house where my grandfather was born in 1895 and where my mother was born in 1930. For the first five years or so, I always watched cup finals at their house. It’s amazing what I can remember from that day, and it didn’t even involve Chelsea.

1972 was a special year for the FA Cup; the year marked the centenary of this competition.

Leading up to the match, there was an Esso coin collection that my father and I completed over the preceding few months. These coins honoured all previous winners, and I was proud as punch that Chelsea were featured. I still have those coins, which are still housed in the special book that I have in my possession, to this day.

The final was between Arsenal and Leeds United and I liked neither. I don’t think I cared who won. I distinctly remember a parade of flags depicting all previous winners being held high by individuals as they walked around the perimeter of the huge Wembley pitch before the game began. Leeds United won 1-0 with a diving header from Alan Clarke from around the penalty spot, and it remains a rarity; a diving header from so far out. I also remember Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell near the goal-line, and him being wrapped up, painfully, in bandages – like a mummy – and the grimaces on his face as he ascended the steps to the Royal Box to receive his medal.

I mention this game in detail since it contrasts starkly with recent FA Cup Finals. I can remember so much from fifty-four years ago, yet I had completely and utterly forgotten that Crystal Palace beat Manchester City 1-0 in the final twelve months ago.

These days, FA Cup Finals are unfortunately seen as an inconvenience by many. In the office during the week, a couple of football fans didn’t even know it was on.

This would be Chelsea’s seventeenth FA Cup Final, and it would be my thirteenth, and – yes – of course I superstitiously looked at this as a bad, a very bad, omen.

Despite a run of four victories in 2007, 2009, 2010 and 2012 that gave us a decent 7-4 overall record, we lost three in a row in 2020, 2021 and 2022 to give us, now, an 8-8 record.

This one was to define if we were to go – in baseball parlance – “over five hundred” with a 9-8 record.

It seemed like the weight of football history was on our shoulders as I collected Paul and Parky. At Reading Services, I fuelled up and looked up at the number to see which pump I had used.

13.

Bollocks.

If I am honest, I was also perturbed by the number of single magpies that I had seen from my car on Friday and again on the drive into London.

“One for sorrow…”

However, it was a clean and easy car journey up to London; the plan was to reach “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 8.30am. I indeed was parked up at exactly 8.30am. Perfect.

The Cup Final Breakfast was perfect too.

Two rashers, a fried egg, liver, baked beans, black pudding, bubble, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea for just £11. And don’t worry; there weren’t sky blue ribbons on my mug.

I parked up near Queens Club and then joined the lads, who had been joined by Ben from Boston in Massachusetts, at Walham Green, the site of the old Fulham Broadway tube station entrance hall.

Despite the many awful decisions made by the FA in recent years regarding this fabled competition – the most heinous being semis at Wembley – I will give them praise for this being the stand-alone game throughout England and Wales on this day, with a traditional 3pm kick-off too.

The pub was an odd mixture of Chelsea fans going to Wembley but also Chelsea and Manchester United fans attending Stamford Bridge for the WPL game, which kicked off at 1pm.

From Fulham Broadway tube, we copied our “lucky semi-final” routine of a tube to Paddington, and an Uber to Marylebone.

We spent an hour or so out on the pavement outside the two station bars and were joined by Matt from DC – last seen in the US with Chelsea in June and July – and many other friends from various locales. The twin bars were not so busy as against Leeds United in the semi-final.

All ears were on the progress of Hearts at Celtic. We heard that the Jambos were 1-0 up but were then tied at 1-1. I was genuinely concerned for our great Hearts mates Kev, Rich, John and Gary. And I feared a repeat of a Saturday afternoon just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 3 May 1986, after I had watched Kenny Dalglish score the winning goal for Liverpool in a 1-0 win at Stamford Bridge – the 43,900 attendance is the biggest I have ever seen at home – I was utterly dismayed to hear, walking out over The Shed terrace, that not only had Celtic won 5-0 at St. Mirren, but Hearts – who only had to draw at Dundee – had let in two goals in the last ten minutes to throw the league title away. It was a hideous day; both Liverpool and Celtic were champions.

As the minutes ticked by, I said a little prayer for our Chelsea / Hearts quartet north of the border.

But time was ticking by. We downed our drinks and headed off to catch the rattler to Wembley Stadium. We hopped on the 1.45pm train on platform 3, just as a load of local lads from various towns in Wiltshire got on board. We were all sat together; Jack and his Dad Richard from Swindon, Les and his son Luke from Melksham, Jason from Melksham, along with us three from Trowbridge and Frome. We had seen Gary and Graham from Trowbridge and Devizes at Marylebone too. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

Well sadly, due to a fault with the train, which slowly pulled out at around 2pm, we weren’t flocking anywhere. The train had broken down, and after a few minutes of painful waiting, limped back to the station.

Time was moving on. We were going to miss the kick-off. I feared the worst for the whole day now. I also had this awful feeling in my gut about Hearts. I had this deepest fear that Celtic would prevail. I hated how one bad turn of fortune affected my whole mood; life, unfortunately, can be like this.

I feared for Chelsea. I feared for Hearts. I was going to be late for the match. Overhead, it was raining, and I was only wearing a T-shirt. Bollocks to all of it.

We scrambled off and tried to squeeze on another Wembley-bound train on platform 2, but the carriages were already full. I saw Paul and Parky try to squeeze on, but I ran on to other carriages. Alas, everything was full.

I glanced at my phone. Hearts had conceded one and then another, and my heart – excuse the pun – divebombed.

I still hadn’t given up on the train on platform 2. I must have sped up and down the length of the train four times.

I must have looked quite a sight as I scurried back and forth, and I had this image of both Paul and Parky, hemmed in against a window, watching me as I peered into the compartments for any potential space with an increasingly worried frown on my face.

“Look at that silly bugger. He was ahead of us as we got on the platform. How the hell are we on this train while he isn’t?”

“Maybe he went off for a pasty.”

I eventually gave up. The next train to leave was on platform 4, and so I rushed over to get on this 2.32pm train. Thankfully, there was room for a seat, just behind my mate Lee, from The Sleepy Hollow, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the train pulled out at 2.30pm; in total, there had been a fifty-minute delay.

Unlike the tube journey to Wembley Park, the overland route to Wembley Stadium takes no time at all. We reached the station at 2.50pm. I knew I would miss the start, so I didn’t rush. I heard the national anthem as I approached the stadium; a few photos for good luck, a very quick ticket check, a non-existent security check, and up the escalators to the top level, just as my friends Nina and David arrived. We all had to quickly use the facilities, but once done, a quick check for entrance 522 and I was in.

It was 3.03pm.

Phew.

As I looked up towards row 20, I saw a gaggle of very familiar faces. It was the lads from Gloucester and Cheltenham who go everywhere with Chelsea and are undoubtedly good value for money. I even bumped into a few of them at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town match eighteen months ago. I shouted out to Richard, who had an empty seat next to him.

“Is that seat 244, Rich?” and indeed it was.

I shuffled past Andrew, Martin and the others and squeezed into my seat. I had to have a little chuckle to myself that among around 28,000 Chelsea supporters occupying the Eastern end at Wembley, I was sat among friends. I told Rich that I was humbled to be among such esteemed company.

“It’s like sitting in the Royal Box, this.”

Just after I arrived, Ryan from Stoke squeezed himself into a seat that wasn’t there and I quipped that I knew that there was safe standing at Wembley these days, but I wasn’t aware that they had unsafe seating too.

The three, and now four or five, minutes that I missed meant that I needed to play catch up and acclimatise myself to everything pretty sharpish. I had seen the team that Calum McFarlane had chosen while on the train. My only issue was trying to work out the shape.

My first real look at the action down below was of Chelsea recovering from a City attack, in which Marc Cucurella was very wide left, and very deep. If the formation that we believed that we had played at Anfield was being repeated here – and which both Chelsea and the BBC mentioned in their official match reports – then Cucurella would be as a pushed-on attacker ahead of a back four. But as the game developed, it seemed that we were employing a 3-4-2-1 formation.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – James – Caicedo – Cucurella

Palmer – Fernandez

Joao Pedro

I hoped that the players were not as confused as me, way up above the south-east corner flag.

What of the crowd? There were many red seats visible, especially in the “Club Wembley” mid-section, and it seemed that there were more unused seats in the City end.

Of course I had missed all of the pre-game displays and ceremonies and now the atmosphere seemed quite quiet. The sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky was Tupperware grey. This didn’t seem much like a Cup Final.

City, not surprisingly, dominated the early possession, and kept moving the ball around to test us, but we defended well, and I would soon be happy to see ten minutes on the clock. Then, a half chance, but Robert Sanchez was able to save easily from a flick from Omar Marmoush close in.

There was a quick break from Joao Pedro on the far side, but Abdukodir Khusanov slid in to nullify the opportunity.

Out of nowhere, the loudest chant of the game thus far, on eighteen minutes.

“Oh when the blues go streaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

The chant was from our end.

The royal blues, not the sky blues.

One-nil to Chelsea, kinda.

Not long after, Erling Haaland poked the ball home after a low ball in from Matheus Nunes, and our world caved in, but thankfully the misery was short-lived; the linesman’s flag indicating that the Portuguese player had received a pass from Antoine Semenyo in an offside position.

The City support at this stage was shockingly poor, and it didn’t even seem that they yelped too loudly when Haaland appeared to score.

The Chelsea support was clearly on top, and we teased the City ranks with two barbs.

“Your support is fcuking shit.”

Which it was.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Which was probably true too.

On thirty-three minutes, a wild shot from Semenyo in the inside right berth after creating space against Cucurella went off for a throw-in on the far side.

Bloody hell.

Haaland, who had threatened rarely, was then sent in after a long searching ball, but his near post shot was well blocked by Sanchez.

In the closing moments, Joao Pedro was through, but he clashed with Khusanov. His fall was rather dramatic, and from so far away I could not ascertain the severity of the defender’s challenge. No penalty. I captured our striker’s cry for help on film, but I wished for more uplifting photos to come.

In the period leading up to the break, thousands of red seats appeared as a good proportion of the crowd disappeared for a beer and a wazz, or probably both.

The first half had hardly been a classic; far from it. City began strongest and dominated but we weathered the storm and carved a few half chances. My biggest fear was us having an off-day and getting humped. Thankfully that never looked like happening thus far. We had created a few attacks, despite no real efforts on goal, and at least we were still in it at the break. But we moved the ball slowly and with no thrust.

I wasn’t sure if we were witnessing Reece James’ best position. He seemed happy walking with the ball and pushing it out to others. Was that it? Both he and Caicedo were quiet.

But oh that City support was so silent; the worst support at a Cup Final that I can ever remember.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Eastern end. In the very first minute, a perfect cross from the left from Nico O’Reilly gifted Semenyo a golden chance but his free header flew over the bar.

At last, some City noise. Maybe they were waiting for their players to attack their end.

“City. City. We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

However, for the next fifteen minutes or so, we managed to obtain a better foothold, and the team was rewarded with some really excellent backing from the Chelsea crowd.

On the hour, a super-loud roar from us.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA. SUPER CHELSEA FC. WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

My voice was loud and I rasped along with the others.

But we never really created many chances. A Caicedo header was cleared off the line by Rodri, but for all of our wing play, and despite Cole Palmer trying to tease some gaps, we found it hard to break City down.

Our purple period – if you can call it that – came to an end, and with twenty minutes left, I began to wonder about extra time. Our defenders headed away dangerous crosses at one end and Joao Pedro went sprawling after minimal contact at the other.

On seventy-two minutes, a dangerous City break developed and as the ball was played to Haaland I yelled “don’t let that freak of nature have it.” He passed to Bernardo Silva and then Silva passed it back to Haaland, who peeled away out to the right.

Lo and behold, he crossed into the box, and Semenyo – with his back to goal – flicked the ball onwards. It flew in at the far post, with Sanchez beaten.

Now City roared. And they sung again.

“We’re the best team in the land and all the world.”

A free kick was headed on by Levi Colwill, and Enzo instinctively swung a boot, but the ball flew over the bar.

On seventy-four minutes, Pedro Neto replaced Cucurella and we reverted to a four at the back.

There were two late substitutions.

Liam Delap for James.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro.

A slow-moving City attack meandered up our right flank and a shot from Nunes took a deflection, but Sanchez reacted well to nudge it against the post. There was another fine save from Sanchez from a Rayan Cherki effort late on.

A header from the hapless Delap went about six yards wide.

Sigh.

On this dull day in north-west London we had lost our fourth FA Cup Final in a row.

Fourkinell.

As I exited, the PA played “Blue Moon.”

Another sigh.

Considering the height from which I had to descend, I made it out pretty quickly. I waited for the gruesome twosome to exit and chatted to many friends as they headed away from the stadium.

“This bloody place. I never want to return.”

This phrase was uttered by both me and a friend.

There was time for one defiant team photo before we headed home.

We had planned on a repeat of the semi and wait for the crowds to fade away, but both lads, who walk with sticks, decided to head up Olympic Way to Wembley Park as the crowds seemed to be moving relatively quickly. The drizzle increased, and there was a hideous memory of the walk along the same stretch in 1994. Thankfully, we made it to Wembley Park in good time, at 5.35pm, and we then came up with a masterstroke. Instead of heading into town, we took a train out to Rayners Lane and then came back into Earls Court on the Piccadilly Line.

We never travel on this stretch of the tube network, and in an almost pathetic attempt to squeeze a little bit of enjoyment out of this most wretched of afternoons, I mentioned to the chaps as we passed through Park Royal that this was the tube station that my parents and I used on my very first visit to Stamford Bridge in 1974. For the next few stations, I was lost in time as I tried to remember my thoughts on that very special day all those years ago.

We grabbed some food at Earls Court, then took an Uber to where my car was parked.

I pulled out of Kinnoul Road at 7.45pm, and I drove nonstop back to Somerset.

My village was waiting for me as I returned at 10pm.

It had been a shite day.

Tales From Neverland

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Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 9 May 2026.

I only finished the blog for the dire Nottingham Forest game at around 10pm on Friday. Sometimes, my brain needs a few days to put everything from a game day into some semblance of order. However, there was an early start required on the Saturday as the foot soldiers of Chelsea Football Club were due to muster just after high noon in Liverpool. The plan was to leave Dodge at 6am and get up to Anfield at 11am for the 12.30pm start.

I set my alarm for 4.45am.

The alarm sounded and I was up. But something seemed strange. Outside, it was surprisingly light. I looked again. It was 5.45am. Bollocks. I had set the incorrect time.

Now it was me doing the Corporal Jones impersonation.

There was a quick text to PD and LP; “running late, see you soon.”

I collected PD at 6.20am and LP at 6.40am and we were soon having breakfast at Strensham Services at the target time of 7.45am.

I was back on track.

The journey up to Liverpool was clouded by the shared knowledge that we were probably in for another tiresome game of football, and the chances of us losing our seventh successive game of league football was likely.

A few people had commented that Liverpool were enduring a rum old season themselves, and that we had a chance to nick a result.

I, dear reader, was far from convinced.

It was a decent run up, despite a period of rain an hour or so out. It wasn’t long before I took the slip road from the M6 to the M62; a well-travelled route.

Nearing Liverpool, the skies brightened, if not our mood in the car. For so long, trips by car to both to see away games at Liverpool and Everton were virtually the same, following virtually the same tracks. Now, with Everton decamped to a riverside site, the final few miles to each team’s stadium will now be different. With the Liverpool stadium capacity now at 61,276, cars are forced to park further out. We spotted cars being parked on kerbs and on verges, for free, a good mile and a half walk away from Anfield. On Utting Avenue, just east of “The Arkles” I spotted a little place that I used to use was now charging a whopping £25.

I dropped the lads off outside “The Arkles” – a famous pub for away fans going to both Anfield and Goodison over the years – and I was pleased with my timing; it was a couple of minutes past 11am. I then skirted Stanley Park and was able to park up in a tried and trusted car park near Goodison, although I was shocked that the fee had shot up to £20.

The familiar walk across the gently sloping rise of Stanley Park towards the steel of Anfield took me fifteen minutes, and I arrived at the stadium at 11.30am.

There was a sound system blaring out some Liverpool songs at the top of the park, and it was odd for me to hear a song about “Fernando Torres, Liverpool’s Number Nine”; I wondered if their ill-feelings towards him have faded over the years.

Approaching Anfield, virtually the first face that I saw was of Stuart, who lives in a village just three and a half miles away from my house in Somerset. I often capture him in my photos as he sits in the front row behind The Shed goal. We had a brief chat about our – slim – chances.

With time to kill, I embarked on a quick tour around the perimeter of Anfield, which now covers a much larger footprint compared to my first visit in May 1985. The expansion of the red brick and silver steel behemoth has caused the demolition of many terraced streets that used to hug the old stadium.

I took a selection of photos to bulk out my day’s harvest, since I was only using my sub-standard “pub camera” and I knew that the game photos wouldn’t be of much worth. I noted a few additions that I had not spotted before. There were concrete benches honouring former Liverpool heroes – I took a photo of one dedicated to Bill Shankly – under the mass of the giant Main Stand, and a statue depicting John Houlding who formed the club in 1892.

It must irk some Liverpool supporters that they were formed some fourteen years after Everton. In comparison, it doesn’t irk me in the slightest that Chelsea were formed twenty-six years after Fulham. It is interesting, though, that without Everton refusing to pay a higher rent at Anfield and without the Fulham board refusing to move to Stamford Bridge, neither Chelsea nor Liverpool clubs would exist.

Close by, a memorial garden for Diogo Jota who died in July 2025.

On the exterior of The Kop, there are images of players and branding splashed on windows of the club shop.

The phrase “Never Done” was used and my guess is that this uses “You’ll Never Walk Alone” as its starting point.

I continued the wordplay and grumbled to myself “might as well call this place Neverland because we never fucking win here.”

This was my twenty-ninth visit to Anfield with Chelsea and I had only witnessed five wins.

1 February 1992 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 2

8 May 2009 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 3

2 May 2010 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2

27 April 2014 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2

8 November 2014 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 2

We have had our moments – featuring some truly massive wins – but they have been fleeting.

I took a photo of the upper mast of Brunel’s Great Eastern ship which has acted as a flagpole at Anfield for decades and marks the sire where my mate Pete and I, in true Scouser fashion, slipped in for free at half-time to watch on the old Kop to witness the first of those wins in 1992.

The Centenary Stand, where I watched the Paul Elliot leg break in 1992, became the Sir Kenny Dalglish Stand a few years back, and who is to say this two-tiered structure will gain another level before long?

At the rear of this stand is a simple plaque remembering the events of 29 May 1985. I touched the Juventus crest. My Italian mate had a ticket in the infamous Section Z at Heysel but – thank God – was unable to attend the match due to an excess of schoolwork that week.

I skirted the final corner and walked under the repositioned “Shankly Gates” – forged in Frome in Somerset and revealed in December 1982 – that used to be in the north-west corner but now sit in the north-east corner.

I membered how the old “Annie Road” stand used to abut the road of its name, but the footprint of the ultra-new Anfied Road Stand has stamped all over those memories.

Then, the final corner, the away entrance, and the scene was awash with orange-jacketed stewards. A quick frisk down, and I was in. It was bang on midday. As I have rudely commented before, for all of the new space due to the extension of this stand, the away concourse is as big as it was in 1985, with very cramped facilities.

I made my way to my seat in row nine but strangely did not spot a single face that I recognised in the concourse. Then, out of nowhere:

“Chris!”

It was Brian, a Chelsea fan that I had not met before, from Chicago, and I felt embarrassed that I did not recognise him despite being mates on “Facebook”. He thanked me for these never-ending tales, and I appreciated the kind words. It was his first visit to Anfield.

Once inside the away enclosure, I was surprised with how hot it was, with the sun beating down, and I began to rue wearing a black hoody. My friend Kim called by for a quick chat; she picked up a last-minute ticket and had the luxury of being able to walk from her mearby house to a Chelsea game.

Alas, there was no Alan, no Gary and no John alongside me on this occasion. I took a few photos of the starters and then the substitutes going through their routines.

The teams entered the pitch, and the flags were waved in The Kop. I didn’t think “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was song with much gusto on this occasion. Scarves were held aloft. It’s their thing.

Right, our team. I had not seen it announced prior to the start of the game, and as the players lined-up, I first thought that we had gone for a 3/4/3 for some reason, with Cucurella and Gusto the wide men outside Hato, the returning Colwill and Fofana, then Caicedo and Santos in the middle, with Enzo and Palmer supporting Joao Pedro.

As always, we attacked The Kop in the first half, and that entire end was engulfed in a large and hazy grey shadow making it difficult to spot details.

We began brightly, and Cole Palmer wriggled into the box on the left and forced a save from the Liverpool ‘keeper Giorgi Mamardashvili, whoever he is.

Then, a Liverpool break, and a foul in a central position. The free kick was some way out, and Dominic Szoboslai’s thumping effort was blocked but the ball ran to Rio Ngumoha not so many yards away from me. Palmer seemed to be doing a good job in stopping a cross. Alas, the ball was played back to Ryan Gravenberch, and he touched the ball inside, aimed, and struck. I did not see the ball go in.

I just heard it.

The home sections roared.

It was their first shot on goal and we were 0-1 down.

My reaction? I bowed my head and just stood silent and still, looking down at my jeans and my trainers for what seemed like an eternity. I did not want to see the smiles on the faces of the Liverpool players, nor the grins on the faces of the red clad hordes. I was deeply sad, too. I just needed my own moment.

Only six minutes were on the clock; or rather those four minimalist electronic clocks that are angled above all four corner flags at Anfield and have become part of my personal nightmare on virtually every trip to this stadium.

Soon into the game, I formed a little self-help group with a familiar face in front – name unknown – with his young son and two young lads from Bradford behind me. We were soon berating Gusto for not taking the ball past his marker into tons of open space ahead, and also the lack of movement, yet again, from our attackers.

We carved out a half-chance at the far post, but then Liverpool came again. A corner on the far side was taken short, and Szoboslai swung in a high cross from deep. There were two Liverpool players unmarked on the far post, and the ball dropped for the second one in line. Virgil van Dijk bounced a shot against the turf and it flew over the bar.

We tried to obtain a foothold. There was a fine run from Palmer, who passed to Joao Pedro, but the ball was just too close to the Liverpool ‘keeper.

On twenty minutes, applause broke out, and I guessed that this was in memory of Diogo Jota. If I had taken the right amount of attention I would have realiosed that his shirt number was 20. A decent number of us joined in.

I kept trying to check the shape of the team as the half progressed, but it was not easy being so low in the stands. Cucurella, out left, really was playing in a very advanced role on that flank.

And he was having a fine game as the half-developed, and – whisper it – we became the stronger of the two teams. From the twentieth minute to the thirtieth minute, we were much better, playing the ball intelligently to feet, then picking good passes into space.

It was unnerving.

“CAM ON CHELS.”

On the half-hour, a run in behind from the energetic Cucurella and he forced a save from Mamardashvili. A second chance for him came too, but the ‘keeper was on form.

I turned to the lads behind; “we’re playing well, here, you know.”

Despite a volley of abuse when Liverpool took the lead, the home fans were quiet, and even nervously so. Anfield is rarely the cauldron of noise that the media would like us to believe (although in fairness, what ground is these days?) and it was easy to detect their frustrations with the manager and his way of playing.

Whereas Klopp’s modus operandi pleased the Anfield faithful, this was not a well-oiled Slot machine.

As the first half developed, their fans seemed even more frustrated than us.

We were awarded a free-kick out on our right, and I decided to snap a few photos. Enzo stood with Palmer. As Enzo stroked the ball goalwards, I snapped again. Unbelievably, the ball seemed to go unhindered through a packed penalty area and – much to our astonished joy – we screamed our delight as it crept in at the far post.

There were hints of laughter amongst the noise emanating from the Anfield Road.

Thirty-five minutes were on the clocks.

Just after, a fine pass from Moises Caicedo presented Enzo with another chance, but the ‘keeper was able to block.

This was excellent stuff from us.  It was lovely to see a few trademark twists and turns from Palmer, hopefully getting back to his best, and it was a joy to see him create space out of nowhere. Elsewhere, Cucurella was continually raiding the left flank, and I settled with the notion of him being the advanced wide man ahead of Hato at left-back. Levi Colwill was a commanding figure at the back, and Caicedo – whose form has dipped the past few months – was back to his best.

It really was a very promising show.

At half-time, I detected a rumble of discontent from The Kop; yes, boos.

At half-time, I sought refuge out of the heat and disappeared into the concourse. Here, two acquaintances were discussing our encouraging display, and one reckoned that our upturn in form came when both sets of supporters applauded Jota. It was an interesting take.

My throat was parched, and I gulped down some water then returned to my place in row nine. Back at my seat, a blast from the past when these tales were forming on the Chelsea In America website in 2008; a half-time Burger.

“Good to see you mate.”

Soon into the second period, a fine Caicedo pass to Cucurella had us excited, and I snapped a shot as he took the ball on. His pass square was lost to me, but I saw the ball rebound out to Palmer who smashed the ball home.

Fackinell, la.

We were up 2-1.

At Anfield.

The celebrations were but yards away and I snapped away. In one very blurred photo Enzo is seen doing his own “cold Palmer.”

“That’s just the ball I want to see played” I said to anyone who was listening. It was magnificent, dissecting time and space, and cutting out three defenders.

The away end was on fire.

And then, a minute or so after the goal, I looked up to see “VAR Review” and we were stopped in our tracks.

“Always the last to know.”

The decision hurt; offside.

Bollocks.

At the other end, a cross deep into our box and Curtis Jones headed home from close range, but the misery was short-lived as an offside flag was soon raised.

Phew.

Liverpool rallied in the second period, but although they enjoyed the lion share of possession, I noted nervousness and displeasure from many of the home fans. I don’t think I had ever heard Anfield so quiet. The away end was hardly boiling over with noise although we did have moments. There was the standard anti-Clearlake and anti-Eghbali chants, but I found it noticeable that the Chelsea support was not so keen to air the usual anti-Liverpool rhetoric.

I thought to myself “we’ve actually found something we dislike more than this lot.”

Szoboszlai thumped a long range effort against the base of Jorgensen’s left-hand post.

On the hour, a bloody fantastic save from Filip Jorgensen – not really tested apart from the goal – as he sprung to turn a blast from that man Szoboszlai around the post.

I kept looking at the clock.

“Come on. Ticktock.”

On sixty-three minutes, Callum McFarlane replaced Andrey Santos with Reece James. There was much applause from us.

“He’s one of our own.”

There was a different response from the home fans on sixty-eight minutes when crowd favourite Ngumoha was replaced by Alexander Isak. Boos boomed around Anfield.

Chelsea were boosted by James’ appearance and everything that he did displayed constant calmness and quality. However, I am increasingly perplexed by his role these days. I still think he is too quiet as captain, and he seems to spend a third of his time at right-back, a third in midfield and a third on the bench. He is a bit of a conundrum is Reece.

On this day, though, he was sensational for half-an-hour.

As Liverpool continued to dominate, their crowd remained quiet.

Liverpool made two substitutions of their own, but our changes were complete. The game continued, and the excellent Joao Pedro danced into the box but shot high and wide.

At the other end, van Dyke lunged at a cross and headed against the bar.

The game, though not a classic, had its moments.

On ninety minutes, Joao Pedro took hold of the ball wide on the left, then waltzed and wriggled past various Liverpool players and into the box. He continued and found himself heading towards the goal-line. A challenge came in. There was a shout from those around me though I was not convinced with my naked eyes. The move petered out.

It went to VAR.

No penalty.

We seemed to be tiring a little at the end, but we gathered strength from somewhere.

It was noticeable that, during the seven minutes of extra time, the Liverpool ‘keeper took a while to release the ball, and this drew howls of disdain from the 57,000 Liverpool fans. Of course, it reminded me so much of our play of late.

At the final whistle, loud boos from The Kop.

I’ve never heard The Kop boo a Liverpool performance before.

Mind you, having seen us win only five times in twenty-nine games, the situation never really arises.

At the end of the game, there were well wishes from a few stewards. I know it might offend some people, but I have always found the LFC match stewards to be the friendliest out there.

The consensus was that our performance had surprised us all, and we were all thankful that the run of losses in the league had ended. Whisper it, but I was proud of the lads at Anfield. This team is not the easiest to warm to, but there has been confusion everywhere once Maresca got the push this season. I hope that everyone can use this positive performance as a catalyst for another memorable day at Wembley.

We walked back down the slope to the car park near Goodison, and I began the slow drive out of the city onto the famous East Lancs Road, the M57 and then the M62. I drove through Knowsley, a suburb where Everton once pondered a site for a new stadium, but we all agreed that they are best served by their new place by the river.

We stopped for refreshments at Stafford, where Burger and Mrs. Burger have been living since 2010 after moving from Canada, and I drove on.

Eventually, I climbed the long hill to J18 of the M4 and took the usual exit to the A46 towards Bath.

“Not long to go now lads.”

Next up, a trip to the FA Cup Final.

The FA Cup Final!

I will never tire of that.

Out of interest, I close with a little graphic of my most visited away venues with Chelsea and our record at each venue.

MANCHESTER UNITED           30          5-10-15

ARSENAL                                        29          6-9-14

LIVERPOOL                                   29          5-9-15

TOTTENHAM                                 27          12-7-8

EVERTON                                       25          8-7-10

The punchline writes itself, I guess.

See you at Wembley.

Tales From Yet Another Loss

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 4 May 2026.

It is amazing what one win did to my brain. That victory against Leeds United at Wembley, though far from convincing, was enough for the memories of the five consecutive league losses, without a single goal to our name. to begin to fade away. For a few days before our league match against Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge, I began to embrace the final five games of the season with a little more confidence. And on the drive to London, alongside the other two musketeers PD and Parky, I aired my thoughts.

“All of a sudden, I am looking forward to the end of the season. Two classic away days, including an end-of-season three-nighter on Tyneside for the final game, two home matches, including an enthralling home game with Tottenham on what could be one of the great nights in a long time, and a trip to the FA Cup Final thrown in for good measure. This one against Forest is the least exciting to be honest, but even this I am looking forward to.”

All because of a win; a big W at Wembley.

W

There had been an enjoyable spell in the pub before we made our way to Stamford Bridge by tube from Putney Bridge. We were joined by Ollie from Normandy, on his birthday, alongside his two mates Jerome and Franck, and also Brenda and Kerry from Kentucky. The pub was quieter than usual, but the laughs kept us going.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 2.45pm, and it was time to check the team that Callum McFarlane had selected.

  1. Robert Sanchez.
  2. Malo Gusto.
  3. Marc Cucurella.
  4. Moises Caicedo.
  5. Tosin Adarabioyo.
  6. Trevoh Chalobah.
  7. Cole Palmer.
  8. Romeo Lavia.
  9. Joao Pedro.
  10. Enzo Fernandez.
  11. Jesse Derry.

There was a full debut for young Jesse Derry after his fleeting appearance as a substitute up at Wrexham in the FA Cup in February.

His shirt was, in fact, number 55; a fine Chelsea number.

Between PD and I in The Sleepy Hollow, there were two empty seats with both Alan and Clive unable to attend. Empty seats, in fact, were dotted around many sections of the stadium. In the pub and on the tube, I had briefly chatted with the two Americans about the likelihood of an upgraded Stamford Bridge ever being realised, in whatever shape or form, and I mentioned my fear that we wouldn’t regularly fill a mega stadium. The debate about a whole stadium rebuild – or worse, a move – has trundled on for years now and I am beginning to wonder if I will ever see a change from us playing at the current Stamford Bridge in my lifetime.

The previous day, Aston Villa played a weakened team against Tottenham, and we howled. A day later, we all expected Forest to do the same.

Well, before we had time to settle down and get acclimatised to the players on display in Forest’s smart pin-striped shirts, we witnessed a calamity taking place around forty yards away. With one minute on the clock, Forest worked the ball to Dilane Bakwa on their right, and his inch-perfect cross over the heads of the two dithering centre-backs fell to Taiwo Awoniyi who leapt and headed cleanly past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell Forest.

So much for a weakened team, so much for a little burst of optimism.

If I didn’t put my head in my hands, I surely should have done.

Sigh.

The game restarted, with spectators still finding their seats in the areas of the MHU around me.

With just two minutes on the clock, a small passage of play sent my mind reeling back in time.

Jesse Derry’s first touch of the ball at Stamford Bridge, and his subsequent spin away from his marker – pure poetry in fact – reminded me so much of Paul Canoville’s first-ever touch in his home debut, only yards away from where Derry skinned his man just over forty-four years later.

I missed Canoville’s infamous debut at Selhurst Park on 12 April 1982 but was present in The Shed when he became the first black player to play for Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on 8 May 1982 against Luton Town. He came on as a late substitute for Peter Rhoades-Brown, and my memory was of more boos – though perhaps not so intense as against Palace – from sections of the home crowd. Paul’s exquisite turn had me purring and must have caused twitches of annoyance from the bigots in the crowd that day.

I had been talking to Ollie about the size of the old Stamford Bridge in the pub, and I loved the fact that I used to be standing on a section of that huge sweeping terrace that someone stood on in 1905, in 1955 and in 1970, and all other years. There was a simple link to our past, and every other home game when I used to stand on The Shed, and although everything has changed so much since 1982, I like the idea that first Paul and then Jesse performed their home debut spins on the same patch of terra firma in front of the East Stand.

And, of course, all of this history would be lost should we move from the current Stamford Bridge site.

The game developed but it was not easy on the eye. We exhibited the same reticence to move the ball quickly and into space. The movement of others continued to annoy me.

On ten minutes, Enzo – who was looking the liveliest – took aim from twenty yards and stroked the ball at goal after nice play from Derry and Joao Pedro. The ball shaved the outside of the far post.

On fifteen minutes, another awkward cross from the Forest left, and a ridiculously stupid shirt pull by Gusto on Awoniyi and the referee Anthony Taylor awarded a penalty after a VAR review.

Igor Jesus converted the spot-kick and their players celebrated right under our noses by the corner flag.

Fackinell Forest.

Two minutes later, Palmer casually lifted a shot wide of the far post, and we all sighed as one.

Not so long after, the cheeky buggers among the Trick Trees’ support took the piss.

“Chelsea give us a song. Chelsea, Chelsea give us a song.”

The players on the pitch had given us nothing to shout about, and Stamford Bridge was deathly quiet. But it shouldn’t be like this should it? Our job is simple as supporters. It’s in the job title.

We carved a couple of half-chances. There was a deep cross from Gusto, and Derry volleyed dramatically over. Then, Palmer to Enzo and another shot from Derry, but a save at the near post from Matz Sels.

This, by and large, was tedious football, with nobody having the vision to pick passes. It wasn’t expansive. But such is the way of this tedious method of football these days. It is all so bone-crunchingly dull.

On thirty-eight minutes, a rare piece of skill, a beautiful drag back from Enzo but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Five minutes later, a penalty shout after Joao Pedro danced into the box and fell by the goal-line. Then, another penalty shout and a bouncer at goal from Gusto, easily saved by Sels. There had been a couple of Forest chances but we had been playing slightly better in the closing moments of the half.

Enzo took two corners back-to-back and from the second one, Derry clashed heads with Zach Abbot. Both players went down. A penalty was given. Derry had gone down before in the game, but he stayed down, here, for a long time. We grew concerned. The minutes past. After an age, he was stretchered off, the poor lad. His home debut had been full of promise, too.

Both sets of supporters applauded him off and he was replaced by Liam Delap, with Joao Pedro shifting left.

Forest’s Abbott went off too.

Alas, in the fifty-fourth minute, Palmer’s penalty was low and weak, and Sels fell to his right and parried the shot. Palmer was unable to squeeze home the rebound.

The first half eventually came to and end on fifty-nine minutes.

There were boos at half-time.

Fackinell Chelsea.

There was a chat at the break with a few mates. I sent this text to the chaps in a WhatsApp Group.

“Turgid AI shite. No imagination. No spontaneity. No freedom. Dull percentage football. Automatons. Sick of it.”

This is my main gripe with football these days. Regardless of how Chelsea play, and God-knows we have been dire of late, the over-riding feeling is a sense of football changing for the worst with possession football eroding the sense of fun and enjoyment at every opportunity. AI getting hold of football and squuezing the life out of it.

Chelsea’s form might continue to nosedive for a while yet, but our football and the football of others is just so dire.

On a few occasions during that first half, I just lost it.

“One of you move!”

“Move for each other!”

There was simply no dynamism and no flair.

Sigh.

I saw our number 6 on the pitch at half-time, and my mind instantly played a trick on me.

“Thiago Silva.”

It was, of course, Levi Colwill and he replaced Tosin as the second half began for his first game of 2026/27. Let’s hope he is fit enough for the Cup Final.

Five minutes in, a shot from Cucurella was so high that the pigeons on the top of the Matthew Harding roof ducked for cover.

Cucurella had been having his usual game; tons of chasing down, tons of tackling, tons of energy, even though he has a tendency to get caught out of possession. If running around like an animated Corporal Jones was a determinant of caring, the Spanish defender would pass with flying colours.

On fifty-one minutes, a clean break down our left – “don’t panic, don’t panic!!!” – and Morgan Gibbs-White was able to push the ball across for Awoniyi to tap in from close range.

I immediately commented “that is the ball we should be playing” as Elliot Anderson played the ball forward intelligently to Gibbs-White.

There was a VAR check for offside, but Awoniyi was on by the narrowest of margins.

Fackinell Forest.

The response from the home support was immediate and provided the loudest chant of the afternoon by far.

“FUCK OFF EGBAHLI – YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.”

I am not so sure any of the protests on the Fulham Road hit home with the board, but this direct messaging service provided by 37,000 Chelsea supporters just might do the trick.

Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, the sixty-minute man.

On the hour, Forest lumped the ball forwards and a brave Sanchez and a possibly braver Gibbs-White collided. Another delay took place. Both players were substituted after a delay of six minutes. I noticed that Sanchez, with his head bandaged, did not receive much applause at all, which was a bit tight.

He was replaced by Filip Jorgensen.

At the other end, Delap caused a bit of a disturbance in the Forest box by completely missing a cross, but the ball fell to Gusto who re-worked it into the six-yard box, and Joao Pedro stabbed home at the second attempt.

Alas, he was offside via another VAR review, by the narrowest of margins.

The Chelsea crowd sang “we nearly scored” and I didn’t know whether to laugh or bloody cry.

We had a couple of shots on goal via Delap and Palmer.

With all the delays, I chirped to PD that “this game could still be going on when we come back for Tottenham.”

By now, vast swathes of blue seats were visible around Stamford Bridge.

Nine extra minutes of injury time were signalled.

Lo and behold, in the dying embers of a horrible match, Gusto swung in a deep ball towards Cucurella who headed the ball back towards Joao Pedro. He controlled the ball with his chest, and bicycle-kicked to perfection. What a fantastic goal. I was hoping my photo would do it justice.

Well. it almost did.

The score was a little more respectable, but this was such a disappointing affair against a weakened Forest team.

I looked up at the slightly fading gold adornments on the high walls above The Shed and it all looked a bit pathetic.

“World Champions.”

By now, these banners look like those gory and gaudy gilt additions in The Oval Office.

Maybe, Boehly and Eghbali will start to plan the demolition of the East Stand and replace it with a huge ballroom to take the attention away from the horrific play on the pitch.

Fackinell.

Yes, I stayed to the end. It’s what supporters do. It’s in the job description. Thousands had fled the scene of the crime by the end though. Bizarrely, I clapped the lads off. Don’t ask me why.

Outside, I met up with Ollie, Jerome and Franck underneath the Osgood statue and I took a photo of them. They were smiling, I am not sure how, and I bellowed “jeux sans frontières” as I left them, and I smiled too.

Don’t ask me why.

On the way home, with Manchester City dropping points at Everton – bollocks – I took a quick look at the league table, and our current form shook me to the core.

L L L L L L

And next up, Liverpool away.

Oh boy.

See you there.

Tales From A Win At Wembley

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 26 April 2026.

After the ridiculously poor performance at Brighton on the Tuesday, he didn’t last long. He had to go, didn’t he? I am not going to dwell too much on Liam Rosenior’s ill-conceived stint as Chelsea manager, but my post on Facebook on the Wednesday sums it all up.

“Well, the bloke lost me when he came out with that ‘respect the ball’ line as he tried desperately to defend the huddles in the centre circle. Promoted way too high, he was soon way out of his depth. The circus continues.

A big part of me would love Cesc to return next season, but he would be bloody mad to report to the loons in charge. I’d hate to see his legacy spoiled.

What now, Chelsea Football Club?

And who?”

I just hope that the board’s comment about undertaking a process of self-reflection to make the right long-term appointment is genuine and not a knee-jerk comment to placate supporters.

Chelsea needs an experienced manager – coach – and while we are at it, let’s buy an experienced ‘keeper, central defender, and striker too. But mainly an experienced central defender, just like Enzo Maresca wanted in the summer.

Going into the up-coming FA Cup semi-final with Leeds United, I suddenly felt more positive without Rosenior in charge, which is certainly a sad indictment on his tenure. Calum McFarlane was to be entrusted with first team affairs, and – well – we went to Wembley with double helpings of blind faith.

“Anyone but Liam?”

Sad but true.

The weekend was to be a couple of contrasting days.

On Saturday, Frome Town were up against Portishead Town at home in the last league game of the season. With the league title, and promotion, already gained, this would be a relaxing day of celebration.

On Sunday, the stakes were higher, Chelsea were off to Wembley with a semi-final against a bitter old rival, and I was apprehensive, to say the least, about our chances.

Saturday was a joyful and relaxing day, on a perfect April afternoon. I met up with some friends for a pre-match drink, and a recurring question was about the day’s attendance. For the championship clincher against Shaftesbury a few weeks earlier, the gate was a pleasing 1,096. With promotion already secured, I wasn’t so sure that the gate against Portishead – themselves in a play-off position – would beat that.

In “The Vine Tree” pub, I liked chatting to the son of a teammate from my Oakfield school team from 1977/78. Later at the game, I would chat to Steve and Kev, two other teammates from that same team. I find these links to my childhood one of the most endearing features of my attendance at my local team’s games. There was also a brief chat with Ray, who lived in the same village as me in my childhood, and who reads all these blogs, despite being an Evertonian and not a Chelsea supporter. This made my day.

Greeting us at the turnstiles was my friend Courtney, who had flown in from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport that morning. This has been a tumultuous first season for him as Frome chairman, and after his attendance against Tavistock in August and Hartpury in November, this would be his third game of the season. It’s always a great moment to see Courtney’s smile once again.

Last season, I attended a mighty forty-two Frome Town games, but the last game of this season would only be number twenty-three. Having Chelsea play many more Saturday games did not help my Frome numbers unfortunately. From November to January, I only saw four Frome games. It has felt that I have not been as connected to Dodge this time around, despite the all-conquering season that we put together.

I must do better in 2026/27.

There was an air of celebration in the stadium throughout the afternoon; it felt like a crossover between a village fete and a charity match. But that was to be expected. The pressure was off, and it felt fine.

The crowd was a healthy one, with around one hundred away fans, complete with “Posset” – their odd nickname – flags, but I wasn’t sure if 1,096 would be breached. I caught Callum Gould’s fine early goal on film, but Portishead put up a good fight and won the game 2-1. Frome sadly finished the season with two consecutive league losses, but a total of just four in forty-two games. There was, however, a Somerset Cup win on the same evening that Chelsea was getting stuffed in Brighton. It was the club’s first-ever double.

The trophy lifts were very special moments, and I include a smattering of some of the photos from the Frome game; apologies again for the colour red.

I stayed on after the game for Player of the Year presentations in the clubhouse, thus ending a very enjoyable few hours.

Oh, the gate? 1,095, unbelievably just one shy of the Shaftesbury game.

But this left Frome with a fantastic average of 558 this season. Last season, in a higher level – Step 3 – it was 510. Next season we will be playing more local teams in the Southern League Premier, so I fully expect our average gate to rise to 600.

At Step 3 in 2018/19, we averaged just 234.

My hometown team is on the up.

So, that was the easy bit, the Saturday. Sunday would be a different ball game. I collected PD and LP, and we flew into London for a great pre-match in three venues. First up, the much visited and much-loved “Half-Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road for a tasty and filling breakfast. There was a brief interchange with a Chelsea fan and his two boys.

Me : “I am feeling nervous.”

Him : “Me too. Fifty/fifty.”

Then a quick flit to “Walham Green”, the pub on the site of the old Fulham Broadway station, where we stayed for a couple of hours. Alan Hudson, who is often seen in the pubs of Fulham, came in and we shared a few words. He was looking very dapper. Now seventy-five, he of course sadly missed out on both games against Leeds United in 1970 due to injury. It was his debut season.

We then caught a cab to Paddington and then an Uber to Marylebone. Here we met up with tons of familiar Chelsea faces inside “The Victoria and Albert” bar and on the pavement outside. There were Leeds fans in the “Station Master” bar next-door. It was all very convivial and – dare I say it – friendly. The dark days of old seemed light years away.

I met up with Nina from New Jersey, who I first met at the tail-end of last season in the US, and met Brenda and Kerry from the US for the first time. Courtney had driven up from Frome the previous evening and had done some volunteering at the London Marathon in the morning but had managed to wend his way west to join us at Marylebone. Like me, he was on a two-game weekend.

With time moving on, Courtney, Paul, Parky and I caught the 1.40pm train to Wembley Stadium. Here, carriages were mixed, and there was banter between the two sets of fans. This would be Courtney’s first visit to Wembley.

Outside in the sun, I took a photo of Courtney with the towering arch behind.

A lot had been made of us not selling our full allocation of tickets; a situation that I was uneasy with. This was a game in London. Against Leeds United. Was the “disconnect” between fans and footballers so huge that the tickets did not fly?

My worries about the day continued to flicker in and out of my head.

I had always been concerned that we would not only struggle on the pitch against Leeds – who schooled us at Elland Road on that miserable night in December – but would lose the battle off the pitch too. Their fans would undoubtedly be “up for it” and I was dreading a repeat of the 2008 League Cup Final when we were devastatingly out sung by a baying Tottenham support.

There was also the “Wembley factor.”

I had every right to be concerned about this game since the last time that I had seen us win at Wembley was way back in May 2018 when Eden Hazard’s penalty gave us a 1-0 win in the FA Cup Final. Since then, there had been seven defeats in a row. Sadly, I was not allowed into our semi-final win versus Crystal Palace in 2022 as my Canon SLR was on the prohibited list.

On this day my small Sony “point and shoot” camera made it in with the briefest of security checks, and on another day, I am sure I could have smuggled my SLR in.

PD and LP made their way to their section behind the goal. As luck would have it, Courtney and I were in the same section, just on the corner flag, and both in the first row, and I was very happy with this change of scene and view. From memory, I had only ever been in the lower section along the side of the pitch just once before at the new Wembley.

I was in at 2.15pm.

Disregarding the games against Tottenham when they played home games at the national stadium, this would be my thirty-sixth Chelsea match at either Wembley stadia; nine at the old Wembley and twenty-seven at the new Wembley.

These figures still shock me.

These are huge numbers.

The first thing I noticed is that when both seats of players made their entrances onto the pitch at 2.25pm, the roar for the Leeds players dwarfed the roar for the Chelsea team; a bad omen for what lay ahead.

Lo and behold, on the pitch under the Royal Box, who should be interviewed by the annoying Chelsea PA chap but Alan Hudson. He was questioned about the 1970 final, and the battles between the two teams. Hudson spoke about the Chelsea team as being full of characters. He wasn’t wrong.

Next up was Tony Dorigo, who had played for both teams, and had won the league with Leeds in 1991/92. He mentioned the thrill of scoring at Wembley, and perhaps that was his subtle nod to us; his goal won the ZDS Cup against ‘Boro in 1990.

Our Chelsea team was announced, and Calum chose this starting eleven :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Tosin Adarabioyo – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Without Cole Palmer and Reece James, this was the best we could hope for, but it seemed a decent enough team to start.

As kick-off approached, the ends erupted in colour.

To my right, banners flew high on the upper balcony.

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS, THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

At pitch level, a line from the 1997 FA Cup Final song reminded everyone about 1970.

“WE’VE GOT SOME MEMORIES ALBEIT FROM THE 70’S.”

We were given flags to wave and unlike the generic standard issue ones of before, these mentioned the game and date; a nice touch.

These were waved during “Blue is the Colour”, even by me, I must be getting soft.

At the other end, yellow scarves had been handed out to the hordes from Yorkshire, and they held them high as “Marching on Together” was played on the PA. A line from the song was displayed at pitch level.

It was altogether, at both ends, quite a spectacle.

At 3pm, the game began.

I am not usually a fan of being so low down, but on this occasion, for a change of scene, it was fine. You get a great perspective of Wembley’s height. It was quite breathtaking. In the first few minutes I was mightily impressed with the noise that Chelsea were making, mainly to my right, but it seemed to encompass both the lower and upper tiers, never an easy task. This was very encouraging.

There was a low shot from Pedro Neto that was easily saved by Lucas Perri. Leeds were given a free kick that I caught on film, but which did not bother Sanchez. There was an early knock-down by Joao Pedro that set up Enzo, but his firm shot went wide. Garnacho, testing the Leeds defence but also our patience, was set free but fluffed his shot.

Chelsea had opened the game well, and were on top, and Enzo was directing operations and providing much-needed bite where needed.

But then, after initially swooping in to clear a ball, Chalobah picked the wrong pass and Leeds pounced. We were back-peddling, and the move brought back a host of recent disastrous moments. The ball was worked to Dominic Calvert-Lewin who flicked a defence-splitting pass to Brenden Aaronson. His low shot was on target, but Sanchez did ever so well with his reflexes to divert the ball away with his right foot. I’ll say it again; the bloke is a fine shot-stopper.

Immediately after the shot was blocked, I turned towards the Chelsea fans to my right and caught the reaction on Aaronson’s face on the large TV screen. It seemed to immediately match the face that I was pulling too; one of utter disbelief.

On twenty-one minutes, a fine move involving Enzo and Lavia set up Joao Pedro, who raced in on goal, but the ball flashed wide after smacking the near post.

Being in the front row, there was no real need for me to stand, and I didn’t particularly want to upset those immediately behind me. However, on twenty-three minutes, sensing a great chance, I stood without thinking, as Pedro Neto was played in by Joao Pedro after a long kick out by Sanchez. Neto steadied himself and sent over a cracking cross into the penalty area. Enzo rose and headed down, past Perri, and in.

Get in.

The Chelsea end roared.

On Tuesday at Brighton, Enzo stood in front of the Chelsea support, alone with his thoughts. Now he was celebrating with his teammates in front of the Leeds United supporters. I chanced a photo, full zoom, and it came out OK, with just enough detail to see the glum Yorkshire faces, apart from two lads, who might not have been Leeds fans at all.

We were 1-0 up.

Glorious.

Chelsea continued to dominate, but chances were quite rare. Our support dominated the Wembley arena, and I was stunned with how quiet the Leeds support had been.

On thirty minutes, Chelsea bellowed “YSIFS” – and it undoubtedly was.

Joao Pedro, the definition of a modern number nine, was playing some lovely stuff, and went close again with a lovely piece of close control followed by a volley.

On thirty-five minutes, possibly the best move of the match, but Garnacho’s cross whizzed across the six-yard box but there was nobody on hand to add a touch.

With five minutes of the first half remaining, the folks at the Western end of the stadium eventually found their voices.

“We all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds, we all love Leeds.”

Then, just after, the first “Marching on Together” since the barrage of noise before the game.

Their quietness had really shocked me. Leeds have always had noisy support, and I wondered if their timid support for most of the first half was due to nervousness.

I remembered their last FA Cup semi-final, way back in 1987, when my college mate Bob joined the Yorkshire team’s support at Hillsborough against Coventry City. Leeds lost 3-2 but my abiding memory from that that day is of the Leppings Lane terrace being absolutely rammed with Leeds supporters. It looked amazing but also terrifying.

On forty-two minutes, Ethan Ampadu – good player, sigh – hoisted a long throw into the box but the resulting Leeds shot flew over the bar.

At the break, we were on top, but I wondered if 1-0 would be enough.

During the half-time break, I noticed that my mate Stephen from New Orleans via Belfast was sitting just a few rows behind me and so I invited him down to watch the second half in the spare seat next to me. I last saw him in the front row at Palace a few months ago.

Chelsea were, of course, now attacking our end, and I hoped for some better-quality photos with the Chelsea players, hopefully, being close by.

In the first minute, after another long Ampadu throw, the ball was knocked around and the ball fell to Anton Stoch who let fly just outside the box. Sanchez did ever so well to parry the shot and his strong wrist deflected the ball high and it dropped, thankfully, on the roof of the net.

Soon after, we drove through the Leeds lines with a lovely break and then with some ingeniously intricate play between Gusto and Enzo. This allowed Joao Pedro a final stab at goal, but he was crowded out and the ball went wide.

I think I pulled that face again.

Not so long after Joao Pedro, so fluid and intelligent, passed to Enzo, then to Garnacho, but his finish was deflected over.

But Leeds were enjoying more of the ball in this half. Just before the hour a cross from their left to an un-marked Calvert Lewin was met with a clean header, but a poor header that Sanchez easily saved.

Then, time for me to roll out my “I hate modern football” catchphrase.

Sanchez went down, the referee blew his whistle, Enzo raced to the manager for instructions, and the Leeds end booed. Inside I was booing too.

This pathetic routine needs to be banished from football.

Leeds were up in arms.

“You cheating bastards, you know what you are.”

We replied with a ditty to the same tune, no names, no pack drill.

On the pitch, Leeds were on top now, but they never really carved out too many chances. It was all about us defending with shape and perseverance.

With sixty-five minutes on the clock, Andrey Santos replaced Lavia.

The game became scrappier. The fans of both teams were experiencing different emotions.

On seventy-one minutes, Cole Palmer replaced Garnacho.

“Great, hopefully some shots of him teasing their full back.”

Well, I took a few, but Palmer never really got in the game, and I was seething when he kicked the ball away, resulting in a very silly yellow.

Chelsea defended resolutely as Leeds kept trying to break through our ranks. The Leeds support went up many notches in that second half; it was quite a turnaround.

Towards the end, though, sensing the players needed the boost, we rallied with some noise of our own.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.”

On ninety minutes, the stewards in front stood up, quite unnecessarily really, so we all stood up too.

“Two can play at that game.”

The noise doubled.

“SUPER CHELSEA FC.

WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.

THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

We were defiantly loud.

Eight minutes of extra time were signalled.

“OLE OLE OLE OLE – CHELSEA CHELSEA.”

In the final minute, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro, who, along with Enzo and Sanchez were the game’s finest performers.

At last, the whistle.

Phew.

Lots of Chelsea smiles, lots of happiness. I tried to catch Courtney’s eye, but he was in his own little world.

As the team walked towards us, we focussed on one player,

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

And he, once again, focussed on us, standing alone, taking it all in, again alone with his thoughts.

On this occasion, the thoughts were much more wholesome and pleasant, no doubt.

I grabbed my flag – though it will undoubtedly end up with others in a spare bedroom – and walked slowly out to meet up with Paul and Parky.

There was a warm glow. I was just happy to be walking back to Wembley Park after a win at Wembley. It had been eight long years for me. We were in no rush to slowly trudge our way up Olympic Way – not Wembley Way, which is elsewhere – and so we sat for a while to let the crowds disperse.

We were all so happy.

After another crazy season, I summed it up.

“Chaos and Cup Finals.”

We would be back at Wembley in three weeks for our seventeenth FA Cup Final.

Our current record, after years of successes, has now slipped to a record of eight wins and eight losses. Should we beat Manchester City, we would go third in the list behind Arsenal with fourteen and Manchester United with thirteen.

In a moment of ridiculous optimism, I sent a few people this message.

“The last week :

Win the Cup Final.

Beat Tottenham.

Relegate Tottenham.

Beat Sunderland.

On the piss in Newcastle as Arsenal finish second.”

I can dream, right?

While we were waiting, I happened to look up and spot a semi-recognisable figure; well-dressed, smart, a familiar gait, and I told the lads “I reckon that’s Eddie Gray.”

He was around fifteen yards away, and I bounced over.

“I know that every time you come to Chelsea, you get in contact with Ron Harris to have a chat and he really appreciates that. So, thank you.”

The photo I took of myself with a true Leeds United legend, a key player in the 1970 matches, and who was still playing for Leeds United when we beat them 5-0 in April 1984, was almost the highlight of the day. What an honour. And what a lovely man.

Just a few minutes later, Stuart Pearce walked past, and I nervously reached out to shake his hand too. He looked in a rush, but we shook hands. Another legend of football.

Alan Hudson, Eddie Gray, Stuart Pearce.

I did well.

We feasted on some sandwiches from a nearby “Tesco” and eventually left Wembley Park at 6.45pm. We were back at Fulham Broadway at 7.30pm, and I shot off to get my car and returned to pick the lads up for the trip home.

On that drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset, we realised that we had not heard – at Wembley at least – those two terrace standards of all previous Chelsea / Leeds encounters.

There had been no Dambusters.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

And no Doris Day.

“And go get your father’s gun…”

It truly shocked us.

I eventually reached home, with pleasant thoughts of the final five matches, and after the past couple of months that has to be a good thing.

Next up, a home game against Nottingham Forest.

See you there.

WEMBLEY

BADGERS HILL

Tales From Twenty-Two Hours

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Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2026.

It never ceases to amaze me that despite our runs of disastrous form which have haunted us over recent years, there is still a clamour to attend Chelsea games, and especially away games. Home games have become a test of grim endurance of late but away fixtures have retained their sense of fun and adventure.

On the day of our evening flit to Sussex for our away match at Brighton & Hove Albion, I was up at just before 5am, and at work at 6am. At 8am, I received a text from my mate Mark, from nearby Westbury, enquiring if I knew of anyone with a spare. Within minutes, I had contacted my pal Jason from Swanage and had sorted things.

There would be one more body in the away end that evening.

Brighton, though. The mere mention of the name sent me back to those utterly grim back-to-back games at the Amex in the February of last year. They were two of the worst Chelsea performances in my memory.

On this occasion, with Chelsea losing our last four league games without scoring a single goal, I predicted our chances of winning to be at 25%.

I left work, with Parky and Paul, and headed down to Salisbury to collect Steve. I stopped for refreshments at Tilshead on Salisbury Plain en route, slowing me slightly, but the journey surprisingly took a whole hour. I continued, a familiar path this one, passing Southampton and Portsmouth, but I was up against some heavy traffic further east on the A27, so came inland at Arundel.

For the next hour we slowly drove through country roads, small towns, country lanes barely wide enough to accommodate two cars, and miniscule villages. There were signs for Hassocks where Matthew Harding lived. There were farms, and fields full of lambs, roads full of slow-moving traffic, overhanging branches, a gorgeous cloudless sky above, and we drove close to Ditchling and its famous Beacon. On two occasions, we found ourselves heading due north rather than south, or even east. We were in the middle of nowhere, a rural idyl, and it seemed ridiculous that we would soon be at a topflight football game.

We eventually closed in on our destination, Lewes, arriving at 6.30pm, some four-and-a-half hours after leaving Melksham. There was the usual battle to sort out parking at the train station car park, but after fighting my phone and an app for a full fifteen minutes, we caught the free train to Falmer.

Then the short walk up to the stadium, which has been enhanced by a new hospitality area called The Terrace which was being built last season.

I like the stadium at Falmer, but I am glad that not every stadium is like it. It makes a decent change. It’s quite aesthetically pleasing both inside and out and has a nice vibe. But I prefer city centre stadia.

I was inside at around 7.30pm, and soon bumped into Mark, who was happy as Larry to get the ticket from Jason.

“Thanks for sorting that, mate.”


“Steady on, you might have a different opinion at full time, mate.”

I was, as always at Brighton, near the front in the third row. Even with an SLR, the goal nets get in the way of decent photos at Brighton. I brought my small camera instead and doubted that I would be able to get any decent action photos. Instead, I turned the camera towards fellow fans. I would be watching the game alongside John and Paul, from Brighton, who was able to utilise Alan’s ticket. 

I spotted some scaffolding at the opposite end and wondered if some sort of stadium enhancement was in progress, albeit cosmetic.

Liam Rosenior chose this team and bizarrely chose a new formation.

Robert Sanchez

Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Malo Gusto – Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia – Marc Cucurella

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Enzo Fernandez

This change in formation did not fill me with too much confidence I hasten to add.

The ground filled, but there were gaps in the home areas. Sadly, just a few empties around me too. Fireworks filled the air to my right, and there was a hearty rendition of their club anthem.

“You may tell them all that we stand or fall.
 For Sussex by the Sea”

Then, the entrance of the teams.

Again, I wondered about the cleverness of wearing all black at an evening game, especially when probably 75% of the spectators were wearing black, dark grey or dark blue coats and jackets. Why not get us a nice all-yellow ensemble for midweek games?

Above, high up in the sky, a thin sliver of a crescent moon shone down on us all, the sky still pure blue and beautiful.

At 8pm, the game kicked off, the only Premier League fixture on this day.

The home team attacked us from the off, and Chalobah made two strong defensive headers in the first few minutes as they came at us from all angles. Already Kaoru Mituma and Georginio seemed to be the main nuisances. On three minutes, the former found himself completely unmarked at the far post and bounced an effort at goal that Sanchez did well to fingertip over the bar.

From the resulting corner, the ball came in towards the near post and rather than taking Chalobah’s lead, Hato avoided good contact and only flicked the ball on. The ball dropped for Ferdi Kadioglu to smash it goalwards. His low effort took a deflection off Wesley Fofana, and flew into the net, just to my left.

Brighton must hate us, the way we have robbed key personnel over the last few seasons, but they often get their retaliation done on the pitch. This soon looked like being another one of those occasions.

The home team continued their dominance, and the Chelsea faithful watched, dumbfounded at our inability to match them.

There was another super tip over by Sanchez from a header by Jan Paul Van Heck.

The away fans bellowed “we want our Chelsea back.”

On fourteen minutes, a thirty second segment summed up our current health. Neto advanced well on the right and cut in but slipped at the all-important moment. Brighton gathered the ball quickly and raced away with desire and direction. There was a moment when Lavia had enough of the ball after a tackle to clear, but he hesitated, allowing Rutter to strike at goal. Luckily his effort was off target.

Four minutes later, Sanchez blotted his copybook as he attempted a tight pass out to a teammate despite the close presence of attackers. His pass was intercepted by Yankuba Minteh who squared to Jack Hinshelwood. Thankfully, his shot was swept off the line by Our Trev.

Fackinell.

I leaned towards John and Paul and said “it’s bad when only 20 minutes have gone and you want the referee to blow up for half-time.

The Chelsea choir were quiet, in a state of shock, but there were a few resilient shouts.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

On twenty minutes, Calvin came over to talk and commented that we had just one touch in the opposition’s box. I think it may well have been Neto’s slip.

One touch, bloody hell.

The rest of the half gave us nothing to celebrate. Our play was sluggish, especially when compared to the home team.

On forty minutes, I glanced at the BBC website and saw that we were still on one touch in the opposition box.

On forty-one minutes, hallelujah, a header from a Chelsea corner.

Two touches.

As we kept the ball for the longest period of the entire first-half, the home fans chortled.

“We want our ball back.”

The cheeky so-and-sos.

At half-time, I kept saying to everyone “how is it only still 1-0?”

In the end, we ended up with four touches in the Brighton penalty box. It had been an utterly woeful performance with only Sanchez – bar his one crazy pass – and Chalobah pleasing me.

We wondered what on earth Rosenior would be saying to the players inside the dressing room. I suspected that he was so livid that he would be using five different colours of highlighter to illustrate his plans for the second period.

He decided to replace Fofana with Alejandro Garnacho, and we reverted to a more familiar shape, at least on paper.

Believe it or not, we improved in the first moments of the second period. Garnacho was sent through and zipped a shot at goal.

The Chelsea crowd gasped.

“We’ve had a shot.

We’ve had a shot.

We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot.”

Gulp.

We had a little more of the ball, but it struck me that when we broke we seemed like rabbits staring at headlights, unsure of what to do. Brighton, in comparison, had a natural flow to their play.

Five minutes in, the old “Second Half At An Away Game” chant kicked-in, to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea.

Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.

Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

Brighton had a penalty shout at the far end, the ball hitting Cucurella.

On fifty-three minutes, we similarly had a penalty shout when the ball flipped up onto Yankuba Minteh’s sleeve, but no decision. With that, they broke like an express train and Rutter set up Hinshelwood to steer home.

Ugh.

Things turned nasty in the away end.

“Fuck off Rosenior.”

The focus had changed from the idiot board to the manager.

On sixty-two minutes, Mitoma did a few “keep-uppies” before a shot that dipped just over. I found myself involuntary clapping, just happy to see some bona fide skill in these days of robotic football.

There was a decent break from Brighton in the inside-left channel, but another lovely save from Sanchez. And then another save from Sanchez. Both were from Kadioglu. He was producing a man of the match performance.

On seventy-two minutes, there were two changes.

Marc Guiu for Delap.

Dario Essugo for Lavia.

While all of this was going on at an increasingly chilly Amex Stadium, Frome Town were playing Portishead Town in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, which was being played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, the former home of Bristol Rovers from 1986 to 1996.

We went 1-0 down, then levelled with a Zak Drew penalty. Portishead went 2-1 up in the second half, only for Sam Meakes to equalise. Then, as Chelsea entered the final quarter of an hour in Falmer, Callum Gould scored a 3-2 winner.

It would be Frome Town’s first double in one-hundred and twenty-two seasons.

On seventy-six minutes, Gusto passed to Garnacho but his shot was deflected wide.

Paul received a text from Alan who said that he was watching the test card as it was more exciting.

I replied that he had more chance of seeing the girl put an “X” on the noughts and crosses board than us getting a goal.

A Guiu shot was deflected for a corner.

I still kept thinking “how is it only 2-0?”

We grimaced when Danny Welbeck was introduced by the Brighton manager Fabian Hürzeler.

Thousands of Chelsea brains clicked as one : “he always scores against us.”

The away end was sparsely populated now, and perhaps some just couldn’t take the ultimate humiliation of this chant from the home areas :

“Are you Tottenham in disguise?”

Lo and behold, on ninety-one minutes a pass inside from Brighton wide man Maxim De Cuyper, and a Brighton player, looking suspiciously like Welbeck, slashed the ball high into the net.

“It’s Welbeck, innit? It’s bloody Welbeck. Bloody hell.”

He reeled away in celebration.

Fackinell.

Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto and you wondered why.

At the final whistle, cheers from Brighton and jeers from Chelsea.

The away end, as at Everton, was probably only one-fifth full by now. I stayed because I was intrigued to see the reaction of the players, and maybe the supporters to the players.

Well, first and foremost, as far as I could tell, none shot off down the tunnel and I took some photos of the scene taking place a few yards away. Jorrel Hato, Alejandro Garnacho and Marc Cucurella first appeared, their faces showing nothing but sadness. Others walked over. There was no patronising clapping from any. They stood meekly still and in front of us. I saw Liam Rosenior slowly walk over. Again, no clapping, but he put his hand on his heart and gestured. There was a volley of boos. This was painful to watch.

The players didn’t hide. They let us vent. And I can’t deny that I felt sadness with them.

My gaze became focused on Marc Cucurella and Enzo Fernandez, who stayed the longest, and then on Enzo who stood silent and still for a minute or so after the rest had turned to walk away.

He still didn’t clap, and I was OK with that. I appreciated that he stood and took it all. He did not hide. There was no emotion. What emotion could there be? He played it straight. He played it as he should. He became the focus for the supporters’ anger. He played it exactly right in my book.

I can only hope that those moments stay with him, as captain, and with the others and that it can inspire them to try to win back our affection.

We all met up outside in the concourse and shuffled away to Falmer Station. Darren from Crewe chatted about the depressing state of affairs, and how he was dreading the Wembley game against Leeds United on Sunday, a game that still has Chelsea tickets for sale.

“I’m not even reading your blog for the rest of the season. I’ve had enough.”

We were back at Lewes station at 10.45pm, and I then faced the tortuous journey home.

As I drove through the town’s tight streets, Parky wondered what Rosenior had said during the post-match interview.

“We were not good enough. Brighton were very good. And can I buy Danny Welbeck please?”

I replied.

“Danny de Vito would be a fucking improvement at the moment.”

It was a long trip home with a few painful diversions. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am.

As I headed north over Salisbury Plain, the moon was now just above the horizon, and straight ahead of where I was driving. It seemed like it was haunting me. That thin sliver of silver that appeared so high in the sky as the game began had now dropped to eye level and had grown in size and had turned a deep yellow.

A metaphor for how our club has dropped in status and league position?

Who knows?

I dropped the lads off and I reached home at 2.30am.

I fell asleep, dreaming of fading moons and fading fortunes, at 3am.

I had been awake for twenty-two hours.

You can write your own punchline.

Tales From A Doubler

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Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 18 April 2026.

Here was another fortuitous moment. With Chelsea’s home match with Manchester United kicking off at 8pm, it meant that I could squeeze in Frome Town’s match at local rivals Melksham Town at 3pm. When I first thought about this as an option, I was slightly wary of having to explain to PD and Parky that they would have to get up to London under their own steam, via train – though not steam train – since nothing gets in the way of them and a pre-match bevy. Thankfully, they half-expected this and had already discussed going up from Frome to Paddington between themselves.

A Melksham Town vs. Frome Town derby is a very local affair; the two football clubs are just sixteen miles apart.

Before the game began, I met up with my usual match-going mates and chatted to others that had travelled over the county border from Somerset to Wiltshire. There were also two work colleagues – my place of work is just half-a-mile away – who I had a quick chat with. They were both supporting the home team. This was a bigger match for them than for Frome. If we beat them, and fellow strugglers Willand Rovers won, Melksham Town would be relegated.

One of the Frome lads shouted over to me.

“Doubler?”

I nodded.

The Oakfield Stadium at Melksham is new – it opened up in 2017 – but I am not a fan. Despite a big block that houses bar facilities, and a measly number of seats, it has the appearance of an open prison. This block backs on to a rugby pitch; it therefore serves both rugby and football. Elsewhere, there are covered stands on only two of the remaining three sides. It’s an anaemic ground with little character. They have enjoyed large attendances since the club relocated, though, and sit second behind Frome in the attendance table of our division.

The Frome faithful took position under the small stand roof at the western edge of the stadium as the game began and soon began taunting the home support about relegation.

However, the home team took hold of the game and scored via Levi Irving after just six minutes. Frome toiled but found it difficult to penetrate a resolute Melksham back-line that included former Frome players Mark Cooper and Alex Hallett. Frome chances were rare. I changed location for the second half and squeezed into the back row of the main stand. Again, more toil from Frome, but few clear-cut chances. With twenty minutes remaining, Joel Smedley turned in a second goal for the home team and that was that. Just after, Frome captain Sam Teale was dismissed for a reckless challenge. With approaching five minutes to go, I said my goodbyes and headed off to London. This was Frome’s third loss in forty-one league games this season, and the first loss that I had witnessed in the competition in person.

I left Melksham Town’s car park at 4.45pm. The route to London took me up the A4, the old Roman road, and I joined the M4 at Hungerford at 5.30pm. The traffic was light, the weather was perfect, and I was parked on a small driveway on Brecon Road bang on 7pm, when my “JustPark” booking started.

I hot-footed it to Stamford Bridge – there was no signs of the protest against BlueCo – and just outside the stadium on the Fulham Road I heard that Brighton had tied it 2-2 with a ninety-sixth minute equaliser at Tottenham.

Beautiful.

I was inside The Sleepy Hollow just after 7.30pm.

There were chats with the chaps – I like the photo of Clive, PD, Daryl, Gary and Ed – and I then settled into my seat in preparation for the day’s main event. This would be my forty-sixth Chelsea match against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge, second only to fifty-one against Liverpool.

Before the pre-match noise and nonsense, former director Colin Hutchinson was remembered. He recently passed away aged eighty-six. He was a key board member under Ken Bates, navigating many pitfalls to acquire top players and help steer the club forward. He was a key figure in the history of our club.

RIP Colin Hutchinson

With injured players unavailable, Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Pedro Neto

Liam Delap

Over in the far corner were the United fans, and with flags from Failsworth, Rossendale and St. Helens. I sometimes wonder if flags from further south are banished for United away games. It’s noticeable that all the permanent banners on display at Old Trafford honour players, managers and games. At Manchester City, Chelsea and Arsenal – among others – banners featuring supporters from all over the world are festooned everywhere. It’s almost as if United are trying to downplay their global reach whereas others are looking to celebrate it.

I scanned the United players and turned to Clive :

“That little scrote Mount isn’t playing, is he?”

He wasn’t.

At 8pm the game kicked off.

I found myself praising Delap as he chased a lost cause in front of The Shed and forced a corner, but it came to nothing. I spotted Enzo playing very deep, starting moves behind Caicedo.

Very soon into the game, everything was taking shape and it wasn’t pleasant. The movement of the ball and the movement off the ball was painfully slow, and Clive and I were bemoaning the robotic nature of everything. Players were hustling each other to get into positions so their AI orchestrated moves could begin.

“No bastard spoke about ‘patterns of play’ in the ‘nineties, Clive.”

There was a penalty shout that was dismissed, and then on eleven minutes, Estevao cut inside onto his left foot and struck a shot at goal. It breezed just past the far post and may have touched the post.

Just after, there was a fortuitous breakaway, but Estevao could only meekly shoot at the United ‘keeper Senne Lammens, whoever he is.

Unfortunately, the young winger took a knock and was replaced by Alejandro Garnacho, and the United fans were stirred into a frenzy.

The game then diminished in quality.

By the half hour, it was dull as hell.

Cole Palmer was fouled just outside the box. He took the free-kick, but it was wasted.

On thirty-two minutes, Garnacho played the ball in to Enzo in the United box, who shimmied past a defender and then did well to win the ball back. He steadied himself and we watched as the ball just missed the goal frame, missing the far post by a whisper.

On thirty-seven minutes, there was a frenzied attack and a save from Lammens from Enzo. Palmer won the loose ball, played in Delap, who fired home.

Alas, we saw the flag was raised. Offside.

Throughout all this, United had offered little. With a minute to half-time, a break down our left found Bruno Fernandes and was given too much space by both Garnacho and a recovering Cucurella. His pull back was slammed in by Matheus Cunha. At the time, we were down to ten men; Wesley Fofana was receiving treatment after clashing with Sanchez when he came to superbly punch away a free kick.

There were strong words from everyone at half-time. Despite occasional half-chances from us, and very little in the way of a threat from United, we were far from happy. Our play was dull and slow. It was so tedious to watch.

What would happen in the second half? Considering we never seem to play the same for an entire game, at least there was hope.

First, there was an attack from the visitors, and a shot from distance from Fernandes that drifted wide. The United fans, typically, had been singing all evening and the buggers were still singing about John Terry, eighteen years after that miserable wet night in Moscow.

I was pleased that we soon managed to get behind the team with a rousing “Amazing Grace” which came out of nowhere and surprised me.

On fifty-one minutes, an effort from Caicedo was deflected wide for a corner. Enzo came over to take it, down below me. For all of his foibles, he remains a favourite of mine and the crowd. We urged him to send over a decent delivery.

No, the ball didn’t clear the first man. In fact, the defender chested it away. Shocking corner. Must do better.

Sadly, not long after, the same player, the same near post, the same terrible corner, this one headed away.

A clipped cross from Pedro Neto found the leap of Delap, but his glanced header hit the crossbar. We squealed in agony. A

We had reached the hour mark, and for short bursts the noise created inside Stamford Bridge was excellent.

Well, to be precise, not 1986 excellent, not 1996 excellent, not 2006 excellent, not 2016 excellent, but for 2026 it was good as we can expect.

A snapshot from Palmer from a Malo Gusto cross was guided wide, and I felt that eventually one of these chances would go in.

On sixty-four minutes, though, a United break, and a shot from Fernandes looped up after hitting Fofana. However, Sanchez scrambled across to steer the ball around the post; a fine save.

At our end, a fine bit of wing play, eventually, from Neto who placed a fine cross towards the six-yard box. The resulting Fofana header was deflected onto the crossbar.

Ugh.

However, the noise boomed again around Stamford Bridge.

On seventy-five minutes, Gusto did well, after a long chase, to drag the ball back and a succession of acrobatic kicks followed, but the United goal lived a charmed life.

A strong Bryan Mbeumo run was halted by a strong, and splendid, tackle by Jorrel Hato, who had played well all game, and was my man of the match.

Throughout this second-half we had played better, no doubt. But it was still difficult to watch Garnacho who, apart from one rare moment when he sauntered past two markers, always chose to run, shuffle, stop and pass back to a teammate. It was also odd to see the other winger, Neto, advance, cut back onto his left peg, then pass to Gusto, our right-back, to swing over a cross.

Inverted wingers, my arse.

On eighty-one minutes, Rosenior made some changes.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

Defensive changes. When we need a goal. Fackinell.

Mason Mount, the little twerp, appeared and strutted around.

Just after, a low blooter from Caicedo, and this went narrowly wide of the far post.

One last change.

A voice behind me.

“Guiu surely.”

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

Needless to say, United held on for the three points. Back at the car, we agreed that despite our issues with our manager, some of our players and most of our tactics, we deserved a point.

Alas, my doubler had returned no points, and I didn’t get home until 1.45am.

It was one of those days.

On Tuesday, a trip to Sussex by the Sea awaits.

See you there.

GAME 1 : MELKSHAM TOWN VS. FROME TOWN

GAME 2 : CHELSEA VS. MANCHESTER UNITED

Tales From A Day Of Priorities

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 April 2026.

Let’s start by time-travelling back to last weekend. The Easter Weekend meant four days away from work, and three games of football for me. As far as enthusiasm goes, it is fair to say that that Chelsea’s FA Cup tie with Port Vale was the lesser of the three. On the Good Friday, Frome Town played at Sporting Club Inkberrow with a slight chance of becoming Champions of the Southern League South. The Port Vale game was on the Saturday. And then Frome played host to local rivals Shaftesbury on Bank Holiday Monday. This is not demeaning the importance of the FA Cup – more of that later – but an indication of how excited I was to see my local team so close to becoming Champions.

After last season’s demoralising relegation from the Southern League Premier South, Frome has utterly surpassed expectations and has dominated the division from early on. Going into the home game with Shaftesbury, newly promoted and sniffing a play-off place themselves, my hometown team required just one point to be crowned Champions and thus gain automatic promotion back to Step Three of the non-league pyramid.

A mighty crowd of 1,096 assembled at Badgers Hill on a sunny afternoon and we watched as Dodge went 1-0 up via an audacious lob from David Duru which was a bit like David Speedie’s equaliser against Arsenal in 1985. However, two Shaftesbury goals caused us a spell of anxiety, only for Archie Ferris to poach two goals to clinch a 3-2 win.

There were scenes of elation on the pitch, in the stands and in the clubhouse after the match as fans and players mingled in celebration. Suffice to say, the post-match revelry lasted many hours and there must have been a fair few headaches the following morning.

I include a picture gallery from this Frome game at the end of this piece; it’s not very often Frome Town become Champions of their division after all.

So that was the final chapter in the Easter weekend. Thoughts now turned towards our match with Manchester City at Stamford Bridge on the following Sunday. This would be the first of a Mancunian double-header with United coming down to SW6 the following Saturday.

As game day approached, it seemed that the fate of Chelsea Football Club was not the only thing on our minds. There seemed to be an awful lot of noise surrounding Arsenal and Tottenham. It seemed that all three clubs were wrapped up in an end-of-season debate about priorities, though oddly West Ham were seemingly omitted from all of this conjecture.

Now then, I have never fancied the idea of Arsenal being more successful than us, and the thought of them winning this season’s title has continually made me feel ill. The thought of them winning the Champions League makes me feel even worse. But as this game with City drew near, there were some in our support who actively wanted us to lose, thus enhancing City’s chances of clawing themselves back into the championship race.

This is not for me. I have seen us play over 1,500 times and I have never wanted us to lose a game. Why would I? It’s a preposterous notion.

Legend has it that on the final day of 1997/98, at home to Bolton, some of the support wanted us to lose so we could relegate Everton. Now then, my recollections are not consistent with this at all. I remember some light-hearted booing from a small section of our crowd as we scored a second, thus condemning Bolton to relegation, but nobody was seriously wanting a Chelsea loss that day, surely? Just a few days later we were to play Stuttgart in the ECWC Final. Why would any fan of the club want a defeat on the Sunday before a Cup Final on the Wednesday?

Seeing Tottenham relegated to the second tier for the first time since 1976 is the stuff that dreams are made of, especially if we can relegate them in our last home game of the season. And yet, tied up in this notion of priorities for us in the last part of this season, was a view held by some that seeing Tottenham relegated meant more than a Chelsea FA Cup win, or Champions League qualification.

There were online polls and everything.

Unreal.

Even the thought of polls asking Chelsea fans about the importance of FA Cup wins sends me to a dark place where I solemnly wonder about some of my fellow support.

There’s a side issue here, too, where the importance of us getting CL qualification in a following season has increasingly become a bigger goal among our support than silverware in a current season.

Again, this baffles me.

For someone who supported us from 1971 to 1997 (silverware = zero) I find all this difficult to fathom.

Not prioritising an FA Cup win?

What on Earth would we have thought of that idea in 1997?

Due to the disruption of the train service on this Sunday in London, our pre-match took place in “The Tommy Tucker”, just a few yards from the Fulham Road. Four of us from the West Country – PD, Glenn, Parky and yours truly – were joined by Ollie and Julien from Normandy, and it was grand to see them again. A table was booked for just after midday, and the pub became busier. I noted a few Mancunian accents, but these lads were keeping themselves to themselves and causing no bother. There was a cheer when Sunderland went 1-0 up at home to Tottenham. With West Ham walloping Wolves 4-0 the day before, our rivals from N17 were now entrenched in the relegation zone.

Ho ho ho.

Our game with City didn’t dominate our thoughts, but we were all, I am sure, concerned about the result. I mentioned to PD that I would, no doubt, be looking up at the TV screen during our match, willing the time on, especially if we were doing better than I had hoped.

I was out of the pub with an hour before kick-off, then consumed the worst cheeseburger of the season, and was in at 3.45pm.

Overhead were ominous grey skies surrounding Stamford Bridge, but these were interspersed with sunshine too.

There was a quick chat with Gary and Daryl, fresh from “The Clarence” and we pooh-poohed the idea of wanting us to lose.

“Nah, fack that.”

It took a while for Glenn and PD to join me in The Sleepy, but as kick-off approached, we were together.

Liam Rosenior chose this team (or had this team chosen for him, if the Machiavellian rumours are true…)

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos – Moises Caicedo

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Before the game, two Chelsea stalwarts Frank Blunstone and Sylvan Anderton, both ninety-one years of age, appeared on the pitch by the tunnel and they bathed in the applause. Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship team in 1955, is only one of two players still alive from that team. The other, former Bristol City manager Alan Dicks, is also ninety-one. It is a joy that they are still with us. Anderton played for Chelsea just after that league title win.

City were wearing a light grey kit with vivid lime socks, and I remembered seeing them wearing that combination at Chelsea once before. Those socks were as hideous twenty-odd years ago as they were in 2026.

The game began, and we attacked The Shed. We traded punches in a lively opening few minutes, with a break from Cole Palmer raising a cheer, only for a weak shot to drift past the post. Within the first ten minutes, an effort from Joao Pedro and another from Palmer gave us all a much-needed boost.

“Ten minutes, Paul.”

City looked to attack down our right as often as they could and Jeremy Doku was often involved. Malo Gusto was a reliable shield in those opening moments.

“Fifteen minutes, Paul.”

Just after, a beautiful run into space from Joao Pedro caused City grief, and I urged him to play in Marc Cucurella, well-advanced. He punched the ball through to the Spaniard, who adeptly scored low past Gianluigi Donnarumma. I was up celebrating, and I immediately loved the roar from my fellow supporters that accompanied the goal. It reassured me that large swathes of the Chelsea support hadn’t lost their minds. However, in a flash, I saw the linesman with his flag raised.

Ugh. Yeah, thought it might be.

“He should have played the ball half a second earlier.”

Bollocks.

We continued in an open game.

“Twenty minutes, Paul.”

As City played in and around our box, looking to penetrate and reach the looming presence of Erling Haaland, I was impressed that we kept our shape and flung bodies in the way of passes and shots. This showed commitment to the cause, something that isn’t always prevalent in our game (and yes, it hurts me to write that…)

There was a rousing “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea” to “Amazing Grace”, the first real show of support; shame it had taken us a full quarter of the match to do so.  

“Twenty-five minutes, Paul.”

We played a smattering of decent football in the City final third. There was a nice move, Palmer to Estevao to Pedro Neto, who came inside and forced a fine low save from Gianluigi Donnarumma. We all enjoyed another piece of skill from Pedro Neto, a sublime Zola-esque twist on the goal-line, so reminiscent of the Sardinian’s humiliation of Jamie Carragher in 2003.

“Thirty minutes, Paul.”

However, City had begun to dominate and there was a great save from a shot by Bernardo Silva from Robert Sanchez, who was roundly applauded by us. Yet, just seconds later, he booted the ball out into the City half, and it landed a good thirty yards from the nearest Chelsea player. The cheers turned to groans.

Robert Sanchez has that knack.

“He used to be shite, he was alright, think he’s back to being shite again” doesn’t really scan, though, does it?

“Thirty-five minutes, Paul” became “forty minutes, Paul.”

I was content with our showing. We hadn’t been out-muscled, or out-played, and had created a few chances. The best chance came right at the end of the half. In the first minute of added time, a Palmer free-kick out on the Chelsea left was swung in and Santos had an unhindered leap at the far post. I caught his header fly over the bar.

Bollocks.

The big question at the break was this :

“Can we play two halves the same?”

For some reason I noticed the mood in the stands at the start of the second period. We had more than held our own in the first half, yet there was no reaction to the players as they reappeared for the second half. Spectators quietly returned to their seats, though a fair few did not bother returning for quite some time, and there was no hint of a cheer or a roar to greet the players. It was all very sedate and all very apathetic. Did I imagine it, or were there times when a similar situation years ago might have resulted in a few roars of support from the Chelsea faithful to create a mood of hostility against a fancied team? I am sure that this sort of practice still exists in the various hotspots of European club football.

Just not in SW6.

It was if the spectators at Stamford Bridge were returning for the second act in a hushed West End theatre.

“Pass the bonbons, dear.”

City, attacking The Shed, began the second period on fire. There was a very early chance for Haaland in the very first minute, then Rayan Cherki screwed a shot wide.

On fifty minutes, Cherki was given time to float a cross towards the six-yard box and Nico O’Reilly rose to glance a header down and past Sanchez.

The City mob celebrated, we slumped in our seats.

Soon after, the City supporters roared.

“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”

Just after, a shot from Antoine Semenyo – a great addition to their team – was deflected wide by Cucurella.

“BLUE MOON, YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE.”

I spoke to PD : “could be a long half.”

Wesley Fofana then managed to backtrack and head off the line and clear.

On fifty-seven minutes, Cherki collected a short corner and ran across the pitch, unhindered, looking for a team mate to hit.

As he ran on, Glenn commentated succinctly.

“Oh shit…oh shit…oh shit…”

His cute pass found Mark Guehi, who tucked the ball low past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

We weren’t in it. There was still half an hour to go. I held my head in my hands.

We conjured up only half-chances. We created only scraps. When needed to be called in to action, Donnarumma dealt with everything.

On sixty-seven minutes, Rosenior made some changes.

Romeo Lavia for Andrey Santos.

Alejandro Garnacho for Estevao.

Yet in the very next minute, Moises Caicedo was pick-pocketed after a pass out from Sanchez, and Doku raced on to score.

The city lot celebrated and soon did their trademark Poznan, though I suspected there was no looking back in anger, only glee.

After the game was lost, we created a few chances.

A ball from Cole Palmer to Joao Pedro was headed wide.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cucurella.

A reactionary save from Donnarumma from Cucurella’s header, close in, denied us a goal.

There were three late changes.

Dario Essugo for Caicedo

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

There had been a warm ripple of applause for Mateo Kovacic as he entered the pitch from the City bench.

The linesman signalled eight minutes of injury time and we sighed again. I stayed to the final whistle. I must be a masochist.

So, there we have it. Two games from two different levels of the football pyramid. Of course, if I was feeling particularly mean-spirited, I could have called this one something different.

“Tales From Champs And Chumps” anyone?

Sometimes it’s the gallows humour that helps us cope.

It was a long and solemn drive home, and I eventually reached home at about 10pm. When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t gleefully warmed by us helping City to overtake Arsenal, but depressed because we had been humiliated yet again this season.


CHELSEA VS. MANCHESTER CITY

FROME TOWN VS. SHAFTESBURY