Tales From Level One And Level Eight

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 6 October 2019.

By a rather strange twist of fate in the odd world of the scheduling of football matches, the two teams to which I am most emotionally tied were playing within six miles of each other on the same weekend and just twenty-three hours apart.

Frome Town of the BetVictor Southern League Division South were at AFC Totton at 3pm on Saturday 5 October.

Chelsea of the Premier League were at Southampton at 2pm on Sunday 6 October.

These two divisions represent levels one and eight of England’s football pyramid.

Premier League, Championship, Division One, Division Two, National League, National League South, Southern League Premier South, Southern League Division One South.

As the weekend approached, the lure of seeing two football games became increasingly tempting. With a little more planning, I could have – at a push – stayed over in Southampton on the Saturday night, but that would have meant that I would have been unable to have a pre-match beer before the Chelsea game as I would need to drive home under my own steam. My pal Glenn had volunteered himself for driving duties for that game. It would mean a rare chance for a few pints before a game for me. That was too tempting to resist. Going in to Saturday, I carried out a few chores and soon decided that a trip south to Totton was too tempting to resist too.

So, a bit of a first here. I know that I have briefly touched upon the exploits of my local team on this site on several occasions (Frome Town were, after all, the first team that I ever saw live, in September 1970), but due to a couple of reasons that will become self-evident, I will include a little match report here.

This would be my fourth Frome Town game of 2019/20. There was an entertaining 1-1 draw with Evesham, a good 3-1 win against Barnstaple, but a poor 1-2 defeat against Slimbridge. All of these games were at home. The three crowds averaged around 220. Frome had enjoyed a fine start to the season, but had weakened recently. “Dodge” – as in Dodge City, our little nickname for this once wild town of The West – were still in third place. The game at AFC Totton, on the western edge of Southampton, would be my first Frome Town away game of the season. It’s only an hour and a quarter’s drive from Frome; straight down the A36, through Salisbury, easy. I was parked-up at 2.15pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. It was £9 to enter. Their stadium has an impressive stand on one side, where I took a seat, a low cover opposite and open-air enclosures behind both goals. I soon spotted club crests for both AFC Totton and Southampton Football Club on the gate leading onto the pitch. AFC Totton occasionally hosts Southampton youth team fixtures. There is the tie-up. The pitch was exceptional in fact. I spotted a couple of Saints shirts during the afternoon.

Frome Town raced into a two-nil lead with goals from Rex Mannings and Joe O’Loughlin in the first quarter of an hour. Our play was quick and incisive. Just as I texted a mate back home to say “it’s all us”, we let in two quick goals. The second effort was superb; the nippy right winger cut in, Robben-esque, and dipped a magnificent curler high into the far corner. I was right behind the flight of the ball. I stood up to applaud. It was sensational.

The little band of fifteen Frome Town supporters changed ends at half-time. I chatted to a mate who I often see at Frome; Jamie is an exiled Arbroath fan, now fully behind Frome Town. We both explained how we would much rather watch Frome Town live rather than Premier League or international games on TV.

In the second-half, it was a lot scrappier, but the home ‘keeper was sent-off for handball outside the box. A central defender went between the sticks. Jon Davies smacked the resultant kick against the wall but was on hand to rifle home the rebound. With a 3-2 win, Frome rose to second in the table behind local rivals Paulton Rovers. The gate was 248, a common amount for this level. At the end of the game, all Frome players walked over to clap the travelling band of supporters, a good half of which I know, and shook hands with every single one of them.

Lovely stuff.

So, there you have it. Frome Town. Level Eight.

Who knows, one day when I feel the need, I might even set up a Frome Town website of my own. I could call it “Well Dodgey.”

People always remember when Mork and Mindy first appeared on TV in an edition of “Happy Days”. Followers of Frome Town – of which I know that there are a few in the US, lured in by my love of both Chelsea and Dodge – might look back and remember it gracing this website first.

Nanu fucking nanu.

Well Dodgey

On the Sunday, Glenn collected me at 8.45am. Well, he actually showed up a whole hour early – he got his times mixed-up – and we soon collected PD, PD’s son Scott, and Scott’s mate Dan, who featured in the League Cup Final tale from last season. In another report recently, I noted the sad demise of my local village team – Mells & Vobster United – but I am pleased to report that it has risen like a phoenix from the ashes to stake a place in the Mid-Somerset League Division Three. I can’t even begin to fathom at what level in the pyramid this represents. But this pleased me. My grandfather played for Mells & Vobster in the 1920’s. I made my debut for the reserves aged thirteen in 1978 and played a few more games in the ‘eighties. Dan is on the committee too. It’s all good stuff.

Another little quirk of fate. Dan is soon moving into a bungalow in Frome which is currently owned by a Chelsea couple – Dave and Karen, erstwhile match day travel companions of The Chuckle Brothers – and which was originally built by my grandfather’s brother Jack before he emigrated to Australia, whose grandson Paul I met out on tour with Chelsea on the Gold Coast last summer.

“Chelsea World Is A Very Small World” – Part 862.

Sadly, this particular Chelsea Away Day was soon hit with a problem. Skirting Salisbury, Glenn’s Chuckle Bus lost power and we stopped as he checked a few things. He turned the ignition again, but there was a puff of blue from the exhaust, and just like Tottenham Hotspur’s claim to be a top-ranking club, our journey went up in smoke.

Glenn had no choice but to dial for roadside assistance. The four of us took a cab into Salisbury and nimbly caught the 1013 train to Southampton Central. We then enjoyed our usual Southampton pre-match routine of a Full English and a few pints of “Peroni.” Sadly, Glenn was unable to report a quick fix and was on his way home on the back of a recovery vehicle. At least we soon sold his match ticket to a fellow fan.

The time soon passed. We caught a cab up to the stadium; PD has just had an operation on his leg, just like Parky – the missing warrior – and so he can’t walk too far. On the walk towards the stadium, we passed through a little tunnel which is bedecked in Southampton images and features their current marketing battle cry of “WE MARCH ON.”

In the darkened concourse under the away seats, I squirmed as I heard more than a few – youngsters, to my ears – singing the “Y” word to “The Famous Tottenham Hotspur.”

Twats.

We were inside with about fifteen minutes to spare. The usual seats, low down, row five, sunglasses on, the sun occasionally hot.

Outside And Inside

The team?

We were back to a 4/3/3.

I do like how Frank can mix it around. The big news was that our Callum was starting for the first time this season. And Jorginho was still anchoring.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Tomori – Alonso

Jorginho

Kante – Mount

Hudson-Odoi – Abraham – Willian

I was stood alongside PD, Alan and Gary.

“We don’t often lose down here, Gal.”

We were the first team to play at this stadium in 2001 – a win – and, after ten subsequent league visits, we had lost just once in the league, a terribly weak capitulation under Rafa Benitez – who? – in 2012/13.

I had seen all of eleven games at St. Mary’s. It’s an easy away game for me, after all.

The flags waved – “WE MARCH ON” – and the jets of flame burst into the air in front of both main stands. We were last at St. Mary’s almost a year to the day ago; Sunday 7 October 2018. This was remembered by myself as a fine Chelsea performance, a 3-0 win, almost a high-point under Sarri. Ross Barkley and Eden Hazard were on fire. Even Alvaro Morata – who? – scored. Another repeat performance please.

Flags And Flames

The Chelsea choir were in good voice as the match began, and Chelsea – in all blue – were defending the goal in front of the 3,000 loyalists.

In the first few minutes, the home team looked eager. In fact, from the kick-off taken by Tammy, we lost possession and failed to stop a move developing. A rasper from Nathan Redmond flew narrowly over Kepa’s bar. Our game slowly improved. Marcos Alonso was often involved in setting up attacks, and we started to look capable of breaking into some areas that would hurt the home team. A low shot from distance from our Tammy, set up by our Callum, was easily saved by the Saints’ ‘keeper Angus Gunn.

With a quarter of an hour played, Callum spotted a burst from Tammy and played a lofted ball into the inside-left channel. The ‘keeper raced out to the edge of the box, but there was no AFC Totton style handball. Instead, Tammy lobbed the ball high – ridiculously high – into the air and over the ‘keeper and we then watched as the ball dropped right on the line. It had been up in the air so long that Tammy was able to sprint forward and watch from very close range as a Saints defender Maya Yoshida tried to hook the ball clear.

Was it a goal?

To me, it looked like it.

Tammy celebrated, a good sign.

No loathsome VAR required this time. Goal line technology to the rescue. A quick decision. A quick roar from the Chelsea faithful.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I caught Tammy’s leap of gleeful celebration if not the goal.

Off to a good start, lovely stuff. The mood in the Northam Stand improved further.

There was the latest, of many, versions of the “Tottenham get battered song.”

In Baku, it started out as this :

“They’ve been to Rotterdam and Maribor.

Lyon and to Rome.

Tottenham’s got battered.

Everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

This season, the complexities were ignored and it soon became :

“Tottenham gets battered.

Everywhere they go.

Tottenham gets battered

Everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

It now seems to be this :

“Tottenham got battered 7-2 at home.

Tottenham got battered 7-2 at home,

7-2 at home”

We also aired Callum’s “Buffalo Soldier” song – with full intro, which not all of us know – and this soon morphed into “The Banana Splits.”

It’s all a bit messy.

“We’ve won it all” was – falsely – sung too.

As a few of us have mentioned, let’s win the World Club Championships before we can even think of singing that. And even then, it seems a pretty loathsome chant.

On twenty-four minutes, we engineered a great move again in the inside-left channel. We put the home team under pressure, and some slick passing from Jorginho and Willian found Mason Mount, who coolly slotted home. His celebration was caught on camera too. His hands were cupped over his ears; our Portsmouth-born pup was enjoying this. Two more efforts from Mount – one just over, one screwed well wide – were evidence of our upper hand.

But poor defensive play on the half-hour mark set us back. From a throw-in on our left, Yan Valery set off on a solo dribble past what seemed like – and was – half of our team. It was awful defending.

“After you, Claude.”

His astute low cross was prodded in by Danny Ings.

Fackinell.

“No clean sheet this week, either.”

The dangerous Redmond was put through but his shot hit the side-netting at Kepa’s near post. Thankfully, with forty-minutes played, Alonso found himself in acres of space on the left. He found Willian, who found Kante. I begged him to hit it to Gunn’s left, where I could see space. His shot hit a defender, and wickedly deflected to where I had originally hoped.

We were 3-1 up.

GET IN.

I captured the celebrations in the haze of the shadows at the Chapel Stand end.

Thankfully, Jorginho was able to clear a goal-bound shot on the edge of the six-yard box when Fikayo Tomori gifted the ball to Ings.

“Jorginho, Jorginho, Jorginho.”

His rebirth has been amazing. It shows, I think, how fickle us football supporters can be.

Egg on faces for some who chose to lampoon him last season? Sure.

It had been an open and eventful half of football. Surely there would be other goals? Pre-match, I had predicted a 3-0 win for us. I was hopeful for further efforts and chances. At times our expansive and high-energy football was a joy. It was a beautiful antidote to the over-passing under Sarri. It was so enjoyable.

The second-half began, with Chelsea attacking the away section. Our noise was good all game long. The home fans only really got behind their team when they scored. It was to be a poor showing from them.

A Braziliant run from deep from Willian was the first notable show of skill in the second period. His burst through the middle, eating up ground voraciously, was followed by a well-aimed pass to Callum, whose low shot across Gunn was deflected wide after a leg was flung out at the last minute.

There was a Southampton free-kick from James Ward-Prowse which failed to trouble Kepa. A rare shot from Yoshida was easily saved.

“His only save this half, PD.”

We were well in control of this game despite the quality of the first-half.

On eighty-minutes, some substitutions.

Mateo Kovacic for Mason Mount, who had run his royal blue socks off all game.

Christian Pulisic for Callum Hudson-Odoi, who had been a lively threat when we were purring.

With six minutes remaining, Michy Batshuayi replaced Tammy Abraham, who had enjoyed another sensational outing.

Eight goals this season.

Beautiful.

As the Chelsea hordes changed from singing “Is There A Fire Drill?” – tedious – to “Oh When The Saints Go Marching Out” – much better – we kept attacking as the home team tired.

“One Man Went To Mow” boomed around the away section as a fine move developed. Alonso kept the ball well on the far touchline. The song reached its conclusion.

“Ten men, nine men, eight me, seven men, six men, five me, four men, three me, two men, one man.”

To Jorginho. He waited for movement. A pass to Michy.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

Michy to Pulisic. A superb give and go. Michy in behind. A sublime touch from Pulisic. Michy in space.

A low shot through Gunn’s legs.

GET IN.

More celebrations, this time right in front of us.

Celebrations

AFC Totton 2 Frome Town 3

Southampton 1 Chelsea 4

A perfect double.

PD is never Willian’s biggest fan, but even he admitted that he had been exceptional all game.

“Man of the match for me, P-Diddy.”

Prince Willian

The whistle soon blew and we all waited for the players and management team to walk down towards us. More photographs. This was, I think, the most enjoyable part of the entire day, the entire weekend. Just as Frome Town’s players had joined in with the celebrations at the end of Saturday’s match, here were the rank and file of Chelsea Football Club joining forces to completely revel in the moment.

Frank’s hugs with his players and his smiles towards us?

Priceless.

We loudly serenaded our beloved manager.

“Super Frankie Lampard” and it felt good, it felt very good.

Frank and Friends

We left the stadium with a bounce in our step.

This was a fine win.

The day continued its take on “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” with another cab to the station, another train to Westbury, a car to Frome and the second van of the day to Mells.

It had been a very fine weekend.

We are sitting pretty in the league, we are in the mix in the Champions League, we play the worst Manchester United side that I can remember for a long time at home in the League Cup, Tammy is among the goals, the youngsters are the talk of the town, Frank is the gaffer and we are one.

Next up, Newcastle United at home in a fortnight.

I will see you there.

Tales From Our Chelsea

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2019.

The Saturday afternoon encounter with Brighton was our third home game of the week and our fourth consecutive home match. When did that last happen? I am struggling to remember.

Glenn, PD and little old me were seated in our favourite corner of our favourite Chelsea pub. We first walked in to “The Eight Bells” down in deepest Fulham almost a complete year earlier; it was the starting point of our “SW6 Pub Crawl” before the Liverpool game on Saturday 29 September 2018. And we immediately fell in love with it, as have many.

In the previous week or so, I had been in contact with my friend Mac, who spends half his life in England and half his life in the Czech Republic, or Czechia as it likes to be called these days, and he was planning to meet us at some stage. While we waited, some other friends and acquaintances had decided to visit the cosy boozer too. First, Alex and Pat – Stafford and London – and a few of their mates arrived. Then, Mark – now living in Zoetermeer in The Netherlands – and Kelly – High Wycombe – arrived and sat down beside us for a chat. Seeing Mark always evokes a special memory for Glenn and I. We first met Mark on the last U-bahn train back into the centre of Munich on that special night in 2012. Gary, mentioned in dispatches in the Grimsby Town report – from Perth in Australia –  joined us, and soon launched into a plate of bangers and mash. At some stage in the proceedings, Brian – Northampton – sat close by too. It was a real gathering of the clans. There had been plans to meet up with Dale – Chicago – and Ollie – Normandy – but they never made it.

At about 11.30am or so, Mac burst into the pub.

“The Seagulls have landed.”

Yes, dear reader, Mac is a Brighton supporter. I have already detailed how Mac and I became friends in these match reports, but a brief summary.

May 2013, “Foley’s”, West 33 Street, Manhattan. I was in New York for the Manchester City friendly, and Brighton had just lost to Crystal Palace in the play-offs. It was me hearing Mac talking about those games that initiated a reaction from me – partial smile, partial grimace – which in turn lead to this from his then girlfriend.

“You’re not Palace, are you?”

“Chelsea.”

We immediately clicked. Two football-mad blokes in a foreign city. Sometimes distance from England makes the memories of the game and the impact of the game on our lives stronger, clearer, more profound. Or was that just the beer? Regardless, we just loved chatting about the game and we shared some laughs.

It was lovely to see him again; the last time was before our game in December 2017 in “The Goose.” Mac was with some fellow Brighton followers Gary and Barry, and a couple more of his friends joined later.

While I chatted to the three Brighton supporters, Glenn and PD were chatting away to Mark and Kelly and at times they were making so much noise that I had trouble concentrating. The cosy corner was becoming our very own Chuckle Land.

Good times.

We did our usual flit along to the “King’s Arms” and spotted a fair few Brighton fans drinking in this much larger pub. The Sheffield United vs. Liverpool game was on TV. Despite a screen only ten feet away, we gave it scant attention. But we certainly howled when the Blades’ ‘keeper let a shot slither through his legs to give Liverpool a late win. We talked football, we talked about VAR, we spoke about the good old bad old days. We made plans to meet up in Lewes ahead of the return game on New Year’s Day in deepest Sussex.

It was soon time to head off to Stamford Bridge. We hopped on the northbound District Line at Putney Bridge and soon alighted at good old Fulham Broadway. For the fourth time in just twelve days, I was home.

After the odd, and obviously embarrassing, appearance of the Eden Hazard banner at the Liverpool game, it was reassuring to see the correct Frank Lampard one being carried over the heads of those down below us in the lower tier.

It was neither warm nor cold, neither overcast nor sunny. There were three thousand away fans at The Shed End. We had heard that, sadly, N’Golo Kante was out for us.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Tomori – Alonso

Jorginho – Barkley

Willian – Pedro – Mount

Abraham

No huge thoughts about the line-up. In Frank We Trust and all that. But I was a little surprised that Ross Barkley started again. It is interesting how Mason Mount has been played in a wide berth this season; I expected him to join the log-jam in the centre. Maybe Frank rates him that highly that he needs to shoe-horn him into the starting eleven regardless. No problems with Fikayo Tomori starting. He has really impressed of late. I can hardly remember any serious errors at all. More of the same please.

The game began. The away team were in all black, the default colour for alternate kits these days in the same way that yellow shirts seemed to be de rigueur in the ‘seventies.

In the pub beforehand, Mac was rather effusive about Graham Potter, the new Albion manager, and his new way of playing, which seems to be a lot more attack-minded and entertaining than that of Chris Houghton. So, the three of us that had been privy to these comments expected that the away team might have a go at us. In the first-half, for starters, how wrong we were. The first period was totally dominated by ourselves. Brighton rarely entered our half. However, despite all of our possession, at half-time the mood among the home sections was of quiet frustration.

In the first part of the game, there were shots from Jorginho, Abraham and Willian. Typically, a couple of these were blocked. On a quarter of an hour, a sweet cross from Mason Mount was met by Tammy Abraham, but the effort touched the goal frame and the chance was gone.

As Brighton began to be more adventurous, I really enjoyed seeing Mason Mount make an energetic burst down below me in the corner when he spotted that a Brighton player had miss-controlled slightly. He immediately sniffed out the chance to make a challenge, a tackle, and we applauded him as he won a throw-in. The run-down was indicative of his energy and enthusiasm. Some of our more established players please take note.

Neal Maupay caused us the first moment of concern, bursting through the middle, but Kepa read the situation well and ran to block on the edge of his box, using his chest rather than attempting to thwart the attack with his hands.

All of our attempts seemed to be fastidiously blocked. Willian had his usual three or four shots on goal. The best chance came from a cross on the Chelsea left from Marcos Alonso. He carefully picked out Ross Barkley and – cliché coming up – put it on a plate for him. His perfect cross towards the six yard box was met first time by Barkley, but the volley was straight at Brighton ‘keeper Mat Ryan.

The home fans howled in agony.

It was the story of the first-half.

Pedro was set free but fluffed his lines, and Alonso skied another late chance. We had peppered the Brighton goal all half, but the game was scoreless. Throughout the first period, the noise was hardly great, it was hardly average. The away fans provided most of the noise, as per usual. Ross Barkley endured a poor half with little real impact.

As the second-half began, we hoped for better things.

Thankfully, after just five minutes of play, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, defender Adam Webster made a hash of an intended back pass to his ‘keeper. Mount pounced, and Webster clumsily tried to rob our raiding midfielder. The penalty was nailed on.

Surely?

Not these days.

VAR. We waited. Brighton players stood around the referee. The penalty decision was upheld. Shocker.

Annoyingly, some Brighton players still kept chattering away to the referee. Under the circumstances, a quick yellow to the noisiest complainer should have been used. Backchat after VAR? A booking. Bloody good job supporters don’t get yellow cards, though, eh?

Jorginho took the ball, despite Barkley and Pedro being on the pitch.

Is everyone keeping up?

Me neither.

A run, a skip, and the ball was placed into the goal.

Blues 1 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

We kept on the front foot. A fierce effort from Pedro was saved by Ryan, Tammy went close. But then Brighton came to life a little, attacking us in the way that perhaps we had expected from the off. The visitors’ best chance came from an in swinging corner, their first of the entire match, taken from in front of their supporters, and the delivery was headed down by Dan Burn and the ball bounced up onto the Chelsea crossbar.

We sighed a collective “phew.”

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Pedro and then there was a Sarri-esque substitution with Mateo Kovacic replacing the under-firing Ross Barkley. Callum began on the Chelsea left, and it was his confident run from a deep run into a central area that allowed a pass towards Willian. The winger, often the subject of much wittering and complaining from some in our midst, advanced before a trademark shimmy to gain a yard of space. His slash past Burn was deflected in at the near post.

Blues 2 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

I looked at one of Willian’s chief detractors in the eye.

Surely the game was safe now? It absolutely felt like it. There was one extra golden chance, when Tammy attempted a subtle dink over the Brighton ‘keeper from inside the penalty box but the chance went begging.

At last a home win, at last a clean sheet, and there was relief from us all. As we made our exit, the sight of Frank Lampard walking on the Stamford Bridge turf and clapping, his arms above his head, was a welcome sight. This is an evolving motif of this season, at Stamford Bridge, and it is a lovely development. A simple act, but it brings so much warmth.

Let’s hope we all have more to cheer, to applaud, in games to come.

There is a positive vibe at Chelsea at the moment. It seems that our Chelsea has been handed back to us on a silver salver.

And it feels good.

Safe travels to all those heading over to Lille for the game on Wednesday.

My next game is on this side of the English Channel, just.

See you at Southampton.

Tales From Boys Against Men

Chelsea vs. Grimsby Town : 25 September 2019.

Our League Cup game at home to Grimsby Town would be our second home game in a run of three within seven days. I completed an early-shift at work at 3pm ahead of yet another midweek flit to the capital. PD drove up, and Sir Les came with us too.

I was brutally frank as I settled alongside PD in the passenger seat.

“Chelsea vs. Grimsby Town. What the fuck am I doing?”

It wasn’t so much that I was totally underwhelmed by the prospect of the game, more the knowledge that I would be cream-crackered at work the next day.

PD responded early.

“It’s what we do, innit?”

Indeed it is.

Talk in the car and in the pubs before the game centered on which youngsters might play, what the attendance might be, and if Grimsby Town, as rumoured, had brought a full six thousand down. If the latter was to be true, we were all happy to lavish praise on the away support.  Admittedly, the ticket prices had been slashed to just a tenner, but – even so – this level of away support was to be commended. Many of the away fans would not be home until 3am.

In “The Goose” and in “Simmons” we met with the usual suspects, plus a few new additions.

I met up with Alex – originally from Dallas –  again, who I vaguely remembered from a game in 2013 when I met up with some fellow Texans down at “The Rose” off the King’s Road. He now lives in Kingston-on-Thames and was looking forward to a rare chance to see us play.

Gary also popped in. He is originally from Swindon but moved out to Perth in Australia in 1987 and was at our friendly against Perth Glory in 2018 and in Baku in May for the Arsenal game. I don’t remember meeting him at either game, even though he spent a lot of the time in the Chelsea pub in Baku. We must’ve just missed each other, despite having mutual friends.

Gary was at the most famous Grimsby game of all – as was PD and Les – in May 1984 when around 10,000 Chelsea invaded Blundell Park to see a Kerry Dixon goal win us the Second Division Championship. I didn’t go to that game, but I have heard so much about it from others that it almost feels as if I was there.

Another lad – Rob – who is a friend of a friend, an old college mate, also popped in to say “hi.” All three have made positive noises about this blog and I thank them for their patronage.

The team news came through on ‘phones. I ran through the team and realised that I would be seeing a couple of new faces. This gave me a nice little buzz ahead of the kick-off.

This would only be the second sighting of Grimsby Town for me. I never saw us play against them in the old Second Division. We last played against each other in an FA Cup replay in February 1996 – we won 4-1 – and my memories of that game are scant. We had a pre-match drink in “The Beer Engine” on the King’s Road, it was a wet old night, we won easily. A quick glance at a YouTube clip of the match reveals an away following of around 1,000 in a gate of 28,000, a near full house in those days. Kenny Swain – I saw his Chelsea debut during my first game in 1974 – was the Grimsby Town assistant manager, a fact that I had long since forgotten. Commentator John Motson could hardly contain himself at times.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHckXyxZesk

I remember my parents taking me up to Grimsby – Cleethorpes to be precise, where Grimsby Town play, a bit like Chelsea playing in Fulham – in the autumn of 1973 to visit friends. As was the way in that era, it was fashionable to festoon parkas or school bags with sew-on badges of towns and cities visited. To my annoyance, our hosts made the grave mistake of getting me a Grimsby Town Football Club badge rather than a city badge. I never forgave them, the fools.

We made our way inside Stamford Bridge. I had predicted that not all those that had purchased tickets would be in attendance and I had expected a “real” gate of around 32,000. At about 7.30pm, there were a lot of empty seats.

I soon spotted that Grimsby did indeed take up the entire Shed. It was a far better showing than in 1996. Around twenty or thirty of them, in their distinctive black and white stripes, had been drinking in “The Goose.” By kick-off, the crowd has swelled. In our little section virtually every seat was being used. It was by far a greater attendance than I had expected, probably topping out at around 36,000 despite a “sell-out” no doubt being declared.

So, our team.

Caballero

James – Zouma – Guehi – Alonso

Pedro – Gilmour – Barkley

Hudson-Odoi – Batshuayi – Pulisic

This would be my first sightings of Reece James and Mark Guehi.

It almost seemed that we had too many attacking players, not that this is a crime. I like the idea of playing with three wingers. Why not play with four? Let’s re-write the rule books. The line-up seemed to be fluid during the evening. The wide men sometimes swapped positions.

Before I had time to settle, we were 2-0 up. On just four minutes, Ross Barkley received the ball some twenty-five yards out, began a solo run and powered through the penalty box before smashing a strong and low strike in at the near post.

1-0.

It was too quick for my camera. I was still fannying around in an attempt to upload a photo for “Facebook” on my ‘phone.

Three minutes later, a run from Reece James was followed by a cross to the feet of Michy Batshuayi, who swiveled and struck.

2-0.

Coasting.

Neither of the game’s two goals on film though.

I was clearly slacking.

There was a trademark Marcos Alonso effort from a free-kick but the ball soared over. Then, a rare attack saw Grimsby Town attack their fans in The Shed. A long ball took us all by surprise. It dropped into space and Matt Green – more a paint colour than a footballer – smashed the ball home off the underside of the crossbar.

2-1.

The six thousand Mariners went doolally.

PD chirped : “Told we won’t keep a clean sheet this season.”

It was virtually the away team’s only shot on goal. While their main tactic seemed to be for ‘keeper McKeown to continually time waste, our tactic was to try to split defenders with crisp passing and good movement off the ball. There was a Batshuayi header, and a couple of crosses into danger areas from Pulisic.

I had spoken to Alan how it is almost taken as a given that diminutive Scottish players will hug touchlines and go on mazy dribbles. But Billy Gilmour was playing centrally, and at times quite deep, and was at the epicentre of many of our best moves. One pass inside a floundering full-back, perfectly timed for Callum Hudson-Odoi, was so sweet.

“What a pass, Al.”

We continued to attack. Just before the break, and as a corner was played in, I caught Kurt Zouma being held back, but yards away from the flight of the ball. It was a cheap penalty.

Pedro, the captain, grabbed the ball. There was none of the nonsense of last week.

He rolled it home with ease. And I photographed it with ease too.

3-1.

It hadn’t been a particularly noisy first-half. The main songs were in support of Frank Lampard. But it was lovely to see and hear a few kids, dotted around, joining in with a few chants. The appearance of a few youngsters in the MHU brought the average age of our section down to fifty-nine years and eleven months.

On fifty-six minutes, a free-kick was played out to Reece James. He clipped a cross in using the outside of his right foot, the ball spinning into the space in front of the ‘keeper, and the long legs of Kurt Zouma poked the ball in. I managed to get the touch on film. I was improving fast.

4-1.

We kept attacking. Grimsby hardly breached the half-way line. On the one occasion that they did, the six thousand away fans screamed as if they were at a Beatles concert in 1964.

Bless’em.

On sixty-six minutes, two more debutants.

Ian Maatsen for Marcos Alonso, Faustino Anjorin for Pedro.

On eighty-two minutes, the ball was knocked out of a packed penalty box to the feet of Reece James. He wasted no time in deciding to shoot. His effort was perfectly placed. Into the net it flew, nestling in at the base of the far post.

5-1.

What a debut.

The Matthew Harding turned their attention from Frank to his assistant.

“One Jody Morris.”

It was all us. We totally dominated.

The Grimsby ‘keeper, in the second-half especially, became their one star, blocking many Chelsea efforts on goal. However, on eighty-two minutes, we worked the ball well inside the box, and Batshuayi slotted the ball past the advancing ‘keeper from a position where Pulisic had been less successful on a couple of occasions. I caught that on film too.

6-1.

In the last minute of normal time, a ball found Hudson-Odoi in the inside-left position. He advanced, shimmied and put his marker off balance, before rifling home at the near post.

7-1.

It had become a slightly frustrating evening for Our Callum so his leap of joy was certainly understood. I caught that one on film too.

I was 5/7 for the night after a miserable start.

I turned to Alan.

“Must be depressing for Grimsby, a team full of seasoned professionals, of men, being turned over by a team of kids.”

This had turned out to be a lovely game of football. The spectre of being sleep-deficient at work the next day diminished with each goal. It was a fine time. I loved seeing Billy Gilmour. He was constantly involved. His future – possibly, it is ridiculously early to be sure – looks bright. Maybe because of his size, he reminded me of a young Jody Morris, a deep-lying schemer, a “prodder” of balls into the feet of others.

I like him most, though, because we are the same height.

The mood was certainly buoyant as we marched down the Fulham Road. There was even time for the first “cheeseburger with onions please love” at “Chubby’s Grill.

Perfect.

On the way back west, we heard that we drew Manchester United at home in the next round.

Tasty.

Next up, Brighton on Saturday.

See you in “The Eight Bells.”

 

Tales From Modern Football

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 22 September 2019.

I really don’t want to mention VAR every bloody week, but…

It comes to something when a Chelsea supporter such as myself feels genuinely aggrieved when Tottenham get a good goal chalked off when one of their players is adjudged to be offside by around twenty millimetres.

As I watched “Match of the Day” on the Saturday night, ahead of our game with Liverpool on the Sunday, I saw Manchester City dismantle a hapless Watford by eight goals to nil. But I knew that the Leicester City vs. Tottenham Hotspur game might well wrestle more attention. I had heard that VAR had played an integral role in that game as the scores dripped into my consciousness during Saturday afternoon and early evening. I watched as a Leicester City goal was called back for offside and, although I am generally against VAR, I thought to myself “fair play with that decision, I can’t complain at that.”  However, it was the Tottenham goal that made me see red. I watched the goal being scored and wondered where on Earth the offside had occurred. I couldn’t see it at first glance. And then, good grief, it was shown that a Tottenham player was marginally – see above – offside. Yeah, we don’t like Tottenham, we love seeing Leicester City – if not us – beat them, but for fuck’s sake.

Modern football, eh?

Everyone knows my thoughts.

Saturday evening and Saturday night turned to Sunday morning. There was an early start as we wanted to be up in London early enough to secure a table at “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge. I collected PD at eight o’clock, collected Glenn’s season ticket, and then picked up Young Jake – he’s getting on a bit now, he’s thirty-one – and headed east. The weather seemed to pose a conundrum. It was going to be warm but with a threat of rain. Rain jackets were selected.

The pre-match ran to plan. Three pubs, a Sunday Roast, chat with friends from near and far, plenty of giggles. It was glorious. Although there were moments when the sky was dark and brooding, the rain had mainly held off.

Inside Stamford Bridge, though, my light jacket was placed on my seat back. It was certainly not needed. It was warm and muggy – a bit sticky – and not particularly pleasant.

Here we were, then.

As many friends had commented, Liverpool presented us with a real test. In the car and pub, we had all agreed that we’d be more than happy with a draw against the league leaders. There had been a couple of wilder projections involving a Chelsea win, but I was not in that camp.

I wasn’t getting carried away.

There was good news in Frank Lampard’s team selection. N’Golo Kante was in, as was Mason Mount. Alas, Toni Rudiger was not available. But this was a good enough team for sure.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Tomori – Christensen – Emerson

Kovacic – Jorginho – Kante

Willian – Abraham – Mount

We had briefly discussed Liverpool; a very able defence, a quick and nimble front three, but a seemingly average midfield. It was, we surmised, a team that was greater than the sum of its individual parts. Previous Liverpool teams, God knows, had certainly possessed greater individual players. But here was a team that certainly worked to a plan with great determination.

I commented to Alan “I’ll take a 0-0 now.”

Prior to the teams entering the pitch, we had embarrassingly witnessed the Eden Hazard flag float over the heads of the spectators below us in the MHL. That wasn’t a good sign; somebody must have made an error. We hoped and prayed that the manager’s choices were better.

There were, of course, three thousand away fans in the far corner, but hardly a flag or banner to accompany them. What? No six stars to be seen anywhere? Others had made poor flag choices too, it seemed.

The game began. It was a lively start. Liverpool probably edged possession, and we were on the back foot a little. We did have periods of positive play. However, with approaching a quarter of an hour played, Liverpool were presented with a little too much space in the middle of our half and the ball was played through to Sadio Mane who was chopped down by Andreas Christensen.

I was comforted by the fact that the position of the free-kick seemed too central to get an angle past the wall, and too close to goal to chip the ball over and down. Sadly, we watched as a well-constructed free-kick saw a Mo Salah back-heel set up Trent Alexander-Arnold to smash the ball past Kepa. The silence all around me was deafening and other clichés. I didn’t like the way that he ran towards the Chelsea supporters to celebrate. Git.

There was a tedious reply from the home stands : ”Murderers.”

I thought we’d all moved on. I hadn’t heard it at a Chelsea / Liverpool game for a while.

There was, however, a rasping “Carefree” soon after and we did our best to get behind the team.

An enforced substitution took place, with Marcos Alonso taking over from Emerson at left-back. We kept plugging away. Now that Tammy Abraham has secured his place as Frank Lampard’s preferred striker, I have mentioned to friends that we can now concentrate on meshing him into the team, playing to his strengths, and perhaps releasing him early as he gets to understand how his team mates work around him. Indeed, there was a signal from Tammy to a midfielder to release the ball into the inside-right channel but as the ball was played he momentarily paused. It was a chance lost. However, not long after, a carbon copy ball was played from deep by Christensen, and the striker’s run into space was perfect. He advanced but annoyingly shot straight at Adrian.

Approaching the half-hour mark, we worked the ball down our left and a cross from Willian hit the danger area. Abraham made a lunge at the ball, and after the effort hit Fabinho, Adrian clawed it off the line. The ball was begging to be pounced upon. Dave swept it in and we screamed our pleasure.

GET IN.

I watched the captain’s joyous run down towards the corner flag, and he was soon mobbed by his team mates. The Bridge was jumping. There were photos aplenty.

Lovely.

And then, a sword to the heart. We spotted on the TV screen above the Micky Mousers that there was a VAR review.

“Why?”

“What for?”

We waited.

We held our breath, what an odd sensation.

Strangely, the away fans seemed to be celebrating before an announcement was made. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

The TV screen told the story : “NO GOAL.”

A little part of me died again. But what could I do? I stood silent, surprisingly calm, but in truth I was just weak with what had just happened.

If I was Spanish, I might have reached for a white handkerchief.

Not long after, what looked like an innocuous challenge between Dave and a Liverpool player – the ball was hanging in the air, both players jumped – went against us and the resultant free-kick was swept in towards the six yard-box. Roberto Firmino rose unhindered and powerfully headed past Kepa.

We were now 0-2 down and seemingly out of it. What a rotten few minutes for us and for Honest Dave especially. I really felt for him.

The rest of the first-half is pretty much a blur. We were deflated, players and supporters alike. It was a horrible sensation.

The Liverpool supporters aired an old song, and if it was because of the VAR incident, they exhibited far more intelligence than they are usually credited.

“Luis Garcia, he drinks sangria.”

Memories of that bastarding night at Anfield in 2005, that ghost-goal, The Kop, and no goal-line technology, the sardonic bastards.

Fuckers.

Just before half-time there was another enforced substitution; Kurt Zouma on for the injured Christensen.

“It gets worse” I thought.

At half-time, VAR dominated our thoughts and our conversations. Information eventually reached us. The incident leading up to our “goal” that was adjudged to have been offside involved an early pass to Mason Mount, quite some time before the goal was turned in. Of course, us spectators in the stadium are, ironically, the last to know about all of this.

I vented to a few people.

It seems to me that there is a huge discrepancy between how VAR is judged by fans that go to games (JD opined “I don’t know anyone who likes it”) and those who tend to watch at home or in bars and pubs on TV. It seems that the chasm between match-goers and those who consume football via TV has grown even wider thanks to VAR.

And that is a shame. The football family should be as one.

My views on all this have been well documented over the past ten years or more. I was even against goal-line technology because I knew damned well that this would just be the tip of the iceberg. I knew full well that before long there would be intrusive video replays holding up the flow of the game. But even I could not have foreseen the madness that has developed this season.

Chaos theory ain’t half of it.

Sigh.

It almost seems that VAR was created for those watching at home. It almost seems that VAR has been brought in under the guise of “fairness” but is just a thinly-disguised extra for the watching millions. I have long said that very soon we will have commercial breaks during VAR hold-ups. It happens in North America, where the native sports tend not to have the sense of flow of our national sport. I can see it happening during the 2022 World Cup, for sure.

The mood at half-time was rotten.

In other seasons, that ball to Mount would have passed without incident. There would have been no appeal for offside, just as there was no appeal by any Liverpool players on this occasion. The moment, that split second, would have been lost in the ether of time. But on this day, the move was deemed illegal, the goal was cancelled, our celebrations quashed.

Some tedious fuckers might whine that “well, actually, he was offside.”

But these little moments are being given far too much weight, far too much importance.

VAR produces decisions which – and here is my final word, for now – seem to be against the spirit of the game.

We’re on a slippery slope here, and some of us are losing the will to stay on our feet.

At the break, losing 0-2, I was reminded of a similarly grave situation at half-time against the same opposition in the Cup in 1997. Losing 0-2, we witnessed one of the most amazing come-backs as we won with style and guts, eventually winning 4-2.

Into the second-half, I truthfully hoped for damage limitation above anything else. We were soon on the back-foot, and only a sublime stop at full stretch from Kepa stopped that man Firmino from increasing the Scousers’ lead. It was a bloody magnificent save. A similarly excellent save soon followed, but an offside flag had ruled out any real concerns. Kepa was at last showing that he had strong wrists.

We then started playing, and the crowd responded. A cross from Dave on the right was delicately touched forward by Abraham, but we watched as it drifted well wide. Before I knew it, it suddenly dawned on me that we were totally dominating possession and Liverpool’s attacks had almost petered out.

With twenty minutes to go, Kante collected the ball centrally. I bellowed for his team mates to move into space, to offer options, but our little prince did not require assistance. He turned into a little parcel of space, cut through with a Hazard-esque shimmy and struck a shot – almost a toe-poke, certainly no back-lift, shades of Ronaldinho at the same end in 2005 – and we watched as it floated beautifully past Adrian.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

The manager replaced Tammy with Michy.

The crowd roared and roared.

On one occasion, with what seemed like the entire crowd as one, a “Carefree” united us all and it was spine-chilling stuff.

Bollocks to VAR.

This is fucking football.

We raided again and again.

Headers from Alonso – drifting wide, losing a marker, but ultimately offside – and then from Batshuayi – just past the far post – brought hope but also agony.

Another effort from Michy, a back-to-goal flick. Wide.

But this was how football should be played. Honest, with determination, with integrity. It was becoming a pulsating match to be part of.

“Liverpool fans are dead quiet, Al.”

We hadn’t heard from them throughout the second period.

We kept coming.

There was one moment when we knocked in a ball, and Liverpool were all over the show, collectively ball-watching, hopeless.

There for the taking.

COME ON CHELSEA.

Right on ninety minutes, Alonso – who was becoming an increasingly important and involved player on the left, often a spare man, a welcome addition to our attack – played in Mount. His first-time effort was snatched and flew high over the bar.

Oh we groaned.

We begged for another goal and kept trying.

It was a fine effort, a great game.

Alas, the whistle blew.

As I filed out – “see you Wednesday” – I could not help but be touched and moved as the home support clapped the manager and players, who – along with the nearby Liverpool players – were applauding back. We were not fooled. We knew that this emerging team had given its all. We were taught a lesson in the first-half, but once we found our feet, we produced a thoroughly pleasing performance. It was beautiful to see us supporting the team despite the loss.

Well done everyone.

On the walk back to the car, there were a few conversations.

To Duncan and Lol : “Fucking hell. It comes to something when I am genuinely upset that Spurs had a perfectly good goal cancelled.”

To Louise, Denise and Stacey : “We know what Frank is doing. We’re together. We’re on the same page.”

To Mark : “VAR is killing football, mate. Seems like the TV viewers need to be entertained. But we don’t go to football to be entertained. We go to support our team. We spend our money and we travel God knows how many hours getting to games and we just want to lose ourselves watching football.”

On Wednesday night, I’ll try to lose myself once more.

Stay tuned to this channel for our game with Grimsby Town.

Cheers.

 

Tales From Two Number Nines

Chelsea vs. Valencia : 17 September 2019.

I walked to Stamford Bridge with Alan. As we turned into the West Stand forecourt, and after we had bypassed the programme sellers and after we had safely navigated the bag search, I looked up and spotted Champions League insignia adorning, as I had expected, the West Stand frontage. I took a photo with my Samsung phone and posted it on “Facebook.”

“The Champions League. Chelsea Are Back.”

I knew I’d have to linger a while and take some images with my trusty Canon EOS1300D.

“See you inside, mate.”

We had spent the previous forty-five minutes or so in “Simmons” in the company of some very good friends – mainly from London and the Home Counties – and, before that, PD and I had spent a similar period in “The Goose” with lads and lasses from mainly the West Country. We had commented to each other that we thought both pubs were quieter than usual. There was no doubt in my mind that this did not suggest a less than full house for the visit of Valencia, but rather it was an indication that such nights see increasingly fewer “regulars” in attendance. Milling around outside Stamford Bridge were, indeed, natives of many nations.

European nights at Chelsea always did attract a more cosmopolitan and diverse crowd.

I took a wide-angle shot of the stand head-on, with everything nice and symmetrical. I then noted that the evening sky was gradually changing from a solid blue. On the drive up in the car – just PD and I again – the sky had been completely devoid of clouds. It had been a cracking afternoon. And now, at around 7.15pm or so, the sky above was infused with delicate pinks.

I walked towards the Peter Osgood statue, and did my best to capture a little bit of everything.

Peter Osgood and the Chelsea flag atop the stand. Peter Osgood and the list of our trophies. Peter Osgood and a specific image of the 1971 ECWC trophy. Peter Osgood, in profile, against the early evening sky.

The King of Stamford Bridge would have loved a night like this. And it is truly sickening to think that he was taken from us at the relatively early age of fifty-nine. In comparison, Ray Wilkins and Ian Britton were sixty-two when they sadly passed. In my mind, I find this impossible to comprehend. Not only are my three favourite Chelsea players of my childhood (my some margin) no longer with us, but Ossie was taken from us at the earliest age. Of the three, he will always be the elder statesman, the most revered, the most loved, the most iconic, The King.

Fifty-nine.

It’s no age, is it?

It is only five years older than me.

A deep deep sigh.

Our time is so precious.

On some European nights, I make the point of touching one of the boots at the base of the statue. It’s not a strong superstition, sometimes I forget.

On this night, I didn’t.

Inside the stadium, it took a while to fill. Over in the away section, there were very few Valencia fans inside. They surely brought more in 2006/7, 2007/8 and 2011/12.

Ah, that season…

By kick-off time, the stadium was full to capacity. These CL group phase tickets are just £35. That’s great value, eh?

In the pub beforehand, though, Andy from Nuneaton and I had briefly touched on the demands of midweek football, especially for us that live a hundred miles or more from HQ. Sometimes, with an early start for work the following day dominating our thoughts, I just find myself wanting for the game to end and get home to get some sleep. Not so much on European nights, though. However, I will be honest; next Wednesday’s match against Grimsby Town might be one of those occasions.

The team was announced; it was the team that had started the second-half against Wolves on Saturday.

Arrizabalaga.

Christensen – Zouma – Tomori

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Willian – Abraham – Mount

This was an eight o’clock kick-off, and with a few minutes remaining, the players appeared on the TV screens, massing in the tunnel. Then, the iconic walk across the Stamford Bridge pitch, past the billowing circular black and white Champions League banner, and across to the West Stand. A slight pause, and then the Champions League anthem.

Chelsea were indeed back.

Hearing the familiar anthem, I am unashamed to admit, caused me to feel a surprisingly warm tingle. It surprised me because many see the Champions League as the epitome of the way that money has won out in this magical game of ours, and that this possibly cheesy and overly-dramatic anthem is a step too far. But it genuinely moved me. One word kept entering my thoughts.

“Barcelona.”

No European team has played us more over the past twenty years. No team has been at the centre of more drama. The anthem takes me back to 2000, to 2005, to 2009, to 2012 and to 2018, our last tie in this competition. I thought of Terry, of Iniesta, of Drogba and shuddered again.

The game began.

I turned to Alan.

“Just weird that Joaquin isn’t playing.”

It seemed that in every game against Spanish opposition not involving Barcelona featured the well-travelled winger. He played against us for Real Betis in 2005/6 and against us for Valencia in 2006/7 and in 2007/8. He even showed up at Stamford Bridge in 2015 in the colours of Fiorentina in that pre-season friendly (Marcos Alonso played too).

But no Joaquin.

Not even on the bench.

Just before the kick-off, and for a few moments, maybe twenty seconds in total, Tammy Abraham stood waiting for the whistle. He was loudly serenaded by the Stamford Bridge crowd. Wearing the famous number nine shirt that Peter Osgood wore with distinction in his two spells with the club, I wondered what was going through his mind. With seven goals to his name already this season, and fresh from his three-goal haul at Wolves, his confidence must have been pinky-blue sky high. And here he was, about to kick-off his first ever Champions League game.

What a time to be alive, Tammy Abraham.

At eight o’clock, Tammy kicked the ball towards the Matthew Harding and we were off and running.

We dominated – utterly – the first twenty minutes. The visitors – in the traditional white shirts and black shorts with the distinctive red, yellow and Batman black badge – hardly entered our half. There was early concern when Mason Mount was fouled and looked in pain. He tried his best to continue, but the foul by former Arsenal Goon Francis Coquelin proved too much. He fell to the floor again and was replaced by Pedro who took position out wide.

We dominated the play but did not create a great deal. There was a fine move down our right and a tight cross from Azpilicueta that Abraham met at the near post. We often played the diagonal to Alonso. Another quality Azpilicueta to Abraham cross amounted to nothing. We were lucky when a rare Valencia attack resulted in a low shot that was blocked by another Valencia player. We kept chipping away at them. It was Willian who managed our best efforts on goal. On the half hour, he twisted in and out of space and ran centrally and quickly but slashed a shot narrowly wide. Later, Kovacic spotted Willian’s run with a sublime ball from deep. The Brazilian chested the ball magnificently but his rushed shot was well over. There were occasions when Willian elected to pass out wide rather than shoot, but he was our main attacking threat. As the first-half drew to a close the last of his three efforts on goal produced a fine save at the near post from Jasper Cillesson in the Valencia goal.

We had most definitely dominated the first-half. Our 60% possession told that story. But Tammy had not received the best of service throughout the half. Our crosses, with a couple of exceptions, had been poor, often rushed and lazy.

I remember my games master – Mr. Ward, a Stokie who was on the books of Stoke City until a leg-break – once lambasted me, as a winger, for a lazy cross and I wondered what he meant. It soon struck home. It meant that I didn’t focus on the options, on the team mate running into space, on the best course of action. I guess that I simply looped it in. I was hurt that I was being castigated for a key part of my game but I hope I learned from it. It is a phrase that has stuck with me to this day.

At nine o’clock, the players reassembled.

Alas, as against Leicester City and Sheffield United, there was a familiar second-half story about to unravel before our eyes.

The atmosphere had been far from red hot throughout the first-half and the noise faded away during the opening moments of the second period as the away team, attacking The Shed, eased themselves more and more into the game. Everyone was sensing that we were defending deeper, and looking uncomfortable in possession. Rather than produce an invigorating and noisy backdrop in which our players would be lifted and taken to another level, we collectively sat back and became as nervous as the players.

There were only one or two occasions when we decided to get it going with our standard “COME ON CHELSEA” battle cry.

Not good enough.

Ten minutes in, a short corner resulted in a shot from Kevin – Kevin? – Gameiro flashed narrowly over from the edge of the box. On sixty-one minutes, Willian and Alonso stood over a free-kick. We were all expecting Alonso to flip the ball high and arch it over the wall. Instead, he struck a low drive which the Valencia ‘keeper scrambled away with a late dive at his left-hand post. Our chances then almost dried up. Tammy was isolated throughout the half. We rarely attacked with any cohesion. How we missed Eden Hazard down below us.

On seventy minutes, Frank Lampard bravely replaced Kurt Zouma with Olivier Giroud, switching to four at the back and paying with two upfront.

Just after, a silly challenge by Kovacic gave the visitors a free-kick from a central position. There was a smart run into space by Rodrigo and the ball was played perfectly to him. His snappy finish left us in complete silence. All ten Valencia outfield players raced over to celebrate in front of the three hundred away fans.

Our reply was immediate.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

In reality, only a fine effort from Giroud – creating space and moving the ball neatly – bothered the Valencia goal. They were now defending deep and space was at a premium. Very often an outstretched leg would stop a pass from reaching its destination.

With ten minutes to go, Ross Barkley replaced Mateo Kovacic.

On eighty-three minutes, a corner from Willian was met with a leap from Fikayo Tomori. I photographed the downward header and did not cleanly see what happened next. There was an appeal for handball, although neither Alan nor I were sure.

Sections of the home crowd began shouting “VAR, VAR” and a little part of me died.

I saw JD shake his head.

After a slight delay, it was announced that VAR was in operation.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No decision.

The referee then sprinted over to watch a replay, and another replay, and another replay, on a TV screen which was on some sort of contraption in front the West Stand. Evidently, a team of experts locked away in a room in Nyon in Switzerland, or somewhere, could not decide, so it was back to the referee who had been standing around ten yards from the initial incident.

Alan : “Surely, if there is any doubt whatsoever, there should be no penalty.”

Chris : “Agreed. 100%.”

After what seemed like an ice age, the referee pointed to the spot.

For the first time that I can ever remember, I did not celebrate a Chelsea penalty. I looked at Alan and our expressions mirrored the opinions of each other.

“Good grief.”

Ross Barkley took the penalty after a considerable wait. His shot clipped the top of the bar and the ball flew into the stand.

Bollocks.

It was not to be.

We don’t lose many European home games, do we?

Lazio, Besiktas, Barcelona, Internazionale, Manchester United, Basle, Atletico Madrid, PSG, Valencia.

Nine.

I have seen them all, damn it. But it is a fantastic record, eh? I alone have seen ninety-nine European games at home from 1994 to 2020. And the complete record is just nine defeats out of one hundred and twenty-two games at Stamford Bridge in all UEFA games. That’s OK with me. It is a stunning run of numbers.

But, records aside, we have done ourselves no favours and this group phase will be – now – doubly difficult to escape from.

I whispered to JD as we trudged down the Fulham Road, “Gdansk is lovely in May.”

There was talk at the start of this week that the three games against Wolves, Valencia and Liverpool will be very testing.

Liverpool is next.

See you on Sunday.

Tales From Three Leaps

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 14 September 2019.

Football – of the right kind – was back after a self-imposed interruption of a fortnight. The international break saw England play Bulgaria and then Kosovo, and despite both matches being shown on “free-to-air” terrestrial ITV, I saw just five minutes of the second game. Even with appearances from Ross Barkley and Mason Mount, I’m afraid that my interest in our national team continues to wane. In the break, instead, I saw two consecutive home games involving my local team. Frome Town drew 1-1 with Evesham United and then beat Barnstaple Town 3-1. Both were excellent matches and I continue to feel an emotional attachment to my most local team, something that I struggle to do with England.

But now it was all about Chelsea.

The Chuckle Bus carried just two of its Brothers to our game against Wolverhampton Wanderers. Parky was still recuperating after his hip operation and Glenn was otherwise engaged. I was parked-up in the city centre at 11.30am, and the two of us – PD and CA – were soon settled in “The Sunbeam” pub outside the city’s bus depot and not too far from the train station, right in the middle of everything. There were signs saying “HOME FANS ONLY” but we skipped past the security guard on the door and were soon inside, despite PD wearing shorts and thus allowing a loud and proud Chelsea tattoo on his leg to be seen by all.

We kept to ourselves and there was no bother nor trouble. This was despite the presence of some locals of a certain vintage who – if their clobber was anything to go by – might have been involved in some fisticuffs a few years back. However, not everyone who goes to football these days who sports a Stoney is a psycho and not everyone who likes the Lacoste label is a lad. We were joined by Scott, Paul and Kim. The mixture of accents must have confused the bouncers, although I suspect that Scott’s Wolves mate, who he met at the Chelsea Legends game at Real Madrid a few months back, might well have aided their entrance into the pub.

The sun was out, we had a good chat, and I liked being able to partake in a little bit of people-watching through the windows. By the time we had decided to move on, there was a large gaggle of Wolves lads drinking outside but the occasional Chelsea fan wearing colours who walked past received no trouble.

“Wouldn’t have been like this in the ‘eighties, PD.”

Wolves fans wearing all different types of replica shirts waltzed past. I soon realised how off the mark the home club was in 2018/19 with the yellow shirt rather than the warmer old gold of the current design.

There were more “home fans only” signs in a few other pubs. One day I’ll make it inside “The Billy Wright”, but maybe not on a match day. We bumped into Alex – originally from Sofia – and he moaned that the “away pub” down near the train station was rammed, so we decided to cut our losses and leisurely walk down to the ground, passing the university buildings and the leafy surrounds of the local church. Molineux was soon spotted, and we disappeared down to the infamous “subway” which was the scene of many an ambush in days of yore.

Despite my decision to forego home programmes this season, I just could not resist purchasing the £5 special edition that marked the one-hundred and thirtieth anniversary of the club moving to their current site. The famous old club was one of the twelve members of the inaugural Football League which began in 1888/89 and Molineux is their fourth home. The programme was wrapped in an evocative panorama featuring an artist’s adaptation of the stadium in 1889, 1958 and 2019. I can well remember the multi-span roof of the stand which used to sit on the land from where we would be watching the game in 2019. The old stadium was in poor repair for many years, but Sir Jack Hayward, whose statue welcomes spectators as they arrive with eyes blinking after walking through the darkness of the subway, helped renovate the stadium with huge success in the ‘nineties and the stadium has since been improved with a new double-deck north stand. It works well. If Goodison Park is my favourite away venue, then Molineux is surely my favourite “new build.” It is ridiculously close to the city centre, there is a perfect use of old gold in much of its structure and it all seems to fit together with a minimum of fuss.

In fact, I bought two programmes. When I was over in Italy during the summer, I spent a few hours in a bar on the beach in which one of the bar staff was a Swedish lad who, after I told him I was a Chelsea fan – I soon get this key fact out of the way pretty sharpish when I start chatting to a stranger for any length of time – he told me that he was a Wolves fan, and had been to Molineux a few times. I decided to send him a copy and he was very grateful when I quickly messaged him.

We waited in the cool of the concourse, PD supping lager, and little old me on my third and fourth Diet Cokes of the day. We welcomed a few friends as they arrived.

We made our way inside and I was well happy with our seats; right on the half-way line, just three rows from the front. For the FA Cup game in 2017, we were located in the lofty heights of the double-decker to my right. For this game, all 2,600 Chelsea were strewn out along the entire length of the lower tier of the Steve Bull Stand. I knew from the off that getting consistent singing from us all would be a difficult task.

I centered my gaze on the ten outfield players going through their warm-ups. There were three centre-halves involved; Christensen, Rudiger and Tomori. I wondered what plan Frank Lampard had hatched.

The sun was beating down. This would not be “Dublin in July hot”, but this was a lovely early autumn afternoon. “Love will tear us apart” by Joy Division improved my enjoyment of the moment, but this was then cut short as we were treated to a prolonged display of pyrotechnics just before the teams entered the pitch. Our faces were scorched by the heat of the flames.

OK – old gold, orange, I get it. I can make the connection between the fingers of flame which darted into the air and the club colours, but on a bright sunny day it seemed rather pointless.

Surely a display at night games only would be better.

Old gold and black.

Perfect.

The teams entered the pitch. We had jettisoned the blue shirts, and even the blue socks from Norwich City, and were in all white.

The team?

Arrizabalaga

Christensen – Rudiger – Tomori

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Willian – Abraham – Mount

It was an Antonio Conte-style 3-4-3.

The game began and it was a quiet beginning. Tammy was soon booed for his Aston Villa connections. On the Wolves right, we were treated to a few lightning bursts from Adama Traore – built like a sprinter or a modern-day winger in rugby – but who (classic football cliché warning) “flattered to deceive.” We looked composed on the ball without creating too much. Things were a little quiet off the pitch too. It took a full twenty-five minutes for a pitch-long chant to unite the Chelsea support. I spotted that Willian and Mason Mount swapped wings once or twice. We tried hard to reach Tammy, but it was a struggle. If I was honest, I’d say that Wolves possibly edged the opening half-an-hour, if only in terms of possession. But there were no efforts on target. A wild shot from Willian which blazed over was our one notable effort. Before the game, in whispered tones, a few of us had been worried about the three games in the next week.

Wolves away, Valencia at home, Liverpool at home.

“We could…possibly…lose all three.”

On thirty-one minutes, everything changed. An attack on our right floundered and the ball was knocked away by a Wolves defender. The ball rolled at pace towards the onrushing Fikayo Tomori and he shaped to hit the ball without the need of a second touch. I snapped just as he connected. We watched, eyes bulging, as the ball made the net ripple.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

Oh my.

What a goal for this match, for this season, for any season.

His leap in front of me was euphoric.

After a few seconds…

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us nowwwww.”

Chris : “Come on moi little dimonddddds.”

Three minutes later, with the Wolves defence on their heels, we found our way into the box. Mount appeared to be fouled but the ball rebounded off a Wolves leg to Tammy who spun one-hundred and eighty degrees and lashed it in. The net bulged again. There was a kiss to the Chelsea support from an ebullient Tammy, back among the goals again.

Seven minutes later, and after a slight Wolves resurgence, a Jorginho cross was headed out. Alonso picked up the loose ball.

I had commented to Alan earlier that because we only had Tammy up front, our crosses needed to be on the money.

Alonso’s cross was.

He picked out Tammy perfectly and the tall striker headed home with ridiculous ease. It was a fantastic goal. Yet more lovely celebrations. I caught his leap towards the Chelsea support in the corner on film. This was another great celebration. It pleased me that I evidently took a better photograph of Tammy’s leap than that of Tomori.

Bloody hell.

We were 3-0 up at the break.

We could hardly believe it.

We had caught fire in the last fifteen minutes and the Wolves fans standing in the South Stand, the old Kop, were as scorched as we were from the pre-match flames. Our three goals might have flattered us a little, but we cared not. Wolves, after all, had not really forced a save from Kepa the entire half.

During the first forty-five minutes, I had mentioned our 5-0 win at the same stadium in 2003, which was my first-ever visit to Molineux. Alan had then spoken to me about his first visit too.

“To her dying day, my Mum never knew I came up here in 1977.”

Alan was just fourteen – I was eleven – and had been going to Chelsea for a few years. Our famous game in 1977, in which our travelling support was officially banned, was a huge occasion. Alan simply had to be there. He had told his mother that he was out to see friends and stayed out the entire day, via a secret trip to Wolverhampton, returning late. In those days – God, they seem so distant, before mobile phones and constant attention and interaction – kids would often disappear for hours on end. On this day – with Wolves needing a point to secure the Second Division Championship and with Chelsea requiring a point to gain promotion – thousands of Chelsea flooded Molineux. We drew 1-1 and, as I have reported previously, my one recollection of that day was hearing the result on “Final Score” at my grandparents’ house, opening the front door, running up the slope to the main road and jumping up, punching the air in a leap not too dissimilar to those of Tomori and Tammy forty-two years later.

Alan and I chuckled about the ridiculousness of it all.

We imagined Alan returning home at 10pm, in a scene not too dissimilar to that of Perry’s return from Manchester in the “Harry Enfield Show.”

“You’re back late, son.”

“Aye, I yam.”

“Why are you talking funny?”

“What yow talking about? Anyway, I’ve brought you a present.”

“What’s this, pork scratchings?”

“Bostin’ ah.”

Kurt Zouma replaced Toni Rudiger at half-time. Very soon, he was causing a few nervous jitters in the away section. However, we withstood some early Wolves pressure. On fifty-five minutes, Jorginho lofted the ball forward to Tammy. He controlled the ball, stood tall against Conor Coady, twisted into a little space, leaving Coady for dead, then struck a low shot past Rui Patricio.

He had silenced the Yam Yam Boo Boys in fine style with a sublime hat-trick.

Smiles everywhere.

Alan, knowing full well our past, uttered the immortal line :

“We’ve got the draw, let’s go for the win” and those close by chuckled.

Mount was set free and should have scored after darting past the ‘keeper after a magnificent pass from Jorginho, but his effort was wide.

With twenty minutes to go, Wolves grabbed a goal back after a corner was scrambled in after Kepa made an initial save. We would only learn much later that it was Tammy’s fourth of the game. Dave, playing wide, had several gut-busting runs down the right and should have created more with his final ball. At times, we were purring.

Ross Barkley replaced Kovacic. Michy replaced Tammy. We kept attacking. There was a lovely looseness to everything we did. Michy impressed me in the final quarter and could have scored a couple himself.

Bizarrely, Patrick Cutrone made it 4-2 with five minutes to go, stabbing home from close range after Kepa fumbled.

…maybe Alan was right after all.

“Bloody hell, we are 4-2 up, why are we all as nervous as hell?”

Wolves appealed for a penalty. The referee did not give it. VAR did not give it.

What a fucking non-story.

With six minutes of extra-time signalled, we found ourselves clock-watching.

“Come on ref, blow up.”

In the final minute, Michy controlled a bouncing ball, and fed in Mount in the inside-left channel. With ridiculous ease, he turned his defender and slotted home.

5-2.

Memories of the 5-0 in 2003.

Game, set and match.

Beautiful.

At the end of the game, Tammy grabbed the match ball. What a time to be alive for this young lad. May he go from strength to strength.

We are all right behind him.

On Tuesday, we reassemble at Stamford Bridge for our first Champions League match since Barcelona away in March 2018.

I can hear the music now…

…see you there.

 

Tales From The Return Of The Blades

Chelsea vs. Sheffield United : 31 August 2019.

Sheffield. My first memories of Sheffield football involved United and not Wednesday. Back in the early ‘seventies when I first became enchanted by football, and all that went with it, it was Sheffield United who were involved in the top flight while their bitter rivals and near neighbours Sheffield Wednesday were playing football in the old Second and Third Divisions.

Names such as Tony Currie, Trevor Hockey and Alan Woodward starred for the Blades in that period. They were a mid-table team and, at times, an entertaining team. In those days, Wednesday – even though they were the bigger of the city’s two clubs, with a few more trophies and a larger stadium – were off the radar for me. Wednesday’s plight mirrored that of Aston Villa who were also loitering in the middle two divisions in that era too.

Although Chelsea played Sheffield United at regular intervals in the ‘seventies, we did not meet throughout the ‘eighties. Instead, Wednesday became one of our biggest rivals in that decade. We met United a few times in the ‘nineties, but our last meeting was in the 2006/7 season.

In all of this time, I have only ever seen them play at Stamford Bridge on three occasions, and there has only ever been one trip for me to Bramall Lane.

The first time that I saw Chelsea play Sheffield United at Stamford Bridge came in season 1991/92 in the fifth round of the FA Cup. I remember that Daryl and I spotted David Lee and Robert Fleck enjoying pre-match pints in “The Stargazey” – alas no more – on the Fulham Road before the game. But don’t worry, they weren’t playing. We won a nondescript game 1-0 with a goal from Bobby Stuart. However, the most memorable part of the entire day took place in a pub in Camden several hours after the game had ended when myself and a couple of college mates, enjoying a quiet pint, noticed an influx of United’s lads – the Blades Business Crew – who were evidently playing cat and mouse with Chelsea and also Sheffield Wednesday who, remarkably, had been playing a league fixture at Highbury that very same day. Thankfully, we managed to sidestep any problems that arose that evening, albeit narrowly. The escapades that took place that night have been well documented elsewhere. It was, evidently, quite an evening.

The most famous Chelsea vs. Sheffield United game of the past three decades, however, was the final match of the 1993/94 season. Chelsea, under Glenn Hoddle, had struggled in the first part of the campaign, adapting to a more expansive and possession based style of football – ring any bells? – but had enjoyed a resurgence after Christmas. We had, monumentally, reached our first FA Cup Final since 1970 too. The home game against Sheffield United was to be our final preparation for the Cup Final. All of our focus was on that game. It was, however, to be the final day of The Shed. We had heard that the club was to demolish the famous old terracing during the summer in preparation for new developments.

I remember travelling up with Glenn, meeting up with Daryl and maybe a couple of others in “The Stargazey” but then deciding at the last minute to get tickets in the East Stand Upper rather than stand on The Shed for the last ever time. I remember that it was raining heavily and there would have been no guarantee of cover in The Shed. So, in one of my most shocking Chelsea decisions ever, I chose not to experience The Shed on its final day. I still shudder at this ludicrous choice twenty-five years on.

“What was I thinking?”

As the North Stand terrace had been demolished around Christmas 1993, the only place left to house the away fans was the East Upper. Lo and behold, Glenn and I found ourselves just a few rows in front of the large and boisterous Sheffield United contingent. The Blades were threatened with relegation, though from memory were unlikely to go down as they were several places above the drop zone. Other teams were in the mix too and it never really dawned on me that relegation would be an option for them. Famously, Everton were right in the mire. Jostein Flo – Tore Andre’s older brother – put the away team 1-0 up and the away fans bellowed “The Blades are staying up.” Jakob Kjeldberg equalised, but Glyn Hodges quickly restored the lead. This was looking good for Sheffield United.

“Now you’re gonna believe us…the Blades are staying up.”

But this was anything but good for us. We had lost 2-1 at home to Coventry City the previous Wednesday evening at Stamford Bridge – in front of a miserable 8,923, maybe everyone was saving their hard-earned for Wembley – and now we were losing to a poor team on the Saturday. It was hardly good preparation for Wembley. Then, miraculously Mark Stein – the season’s unlikely hero – scored in the seventy-fourth minute and again on ninety to give us a dramatic 3-2 victory. Elsewhere none other than Bobby Stuart – or Graham Stuart, now that he had left us – had scored for Everton to give them a late win at home to Wimbledon, and – much to my sadness – we soon realised that Mark Stein’s late winner, a poacher’s goal in front of The Shed, had relegated Sheffield United.

The away fans went deathly quiet.

It was a game that we wanted to win for sure, with Wembley coming up, but it was horrible to witness at close hand the absolute sadness being experienced by the Blades fans. Some younger fans were in tears.

It was the first time that they had been in the bottom three all season.

It was a bizarre experience. And, I’ll be honest, I really felt for them.

Glenn and I sloped away, quiet too.

My pre-match activity for the game in 2019/20 involved more history. I joined up with twelve other Chelsea supporters who had signed up for Rick Glanvill’s historical walk along the Fulham Road. Rick is the official club historian and is heavily involved at Chelsea, having written the official book celebrating our centenary in 2005 – what timing, what a year – and writes for the match programme to this day.

From 11pm to 12.30pm, Rick effortlessly guided us from the Fulham Town Hall to Stamford Bridge – the bridge, not the stadium – and from 1905 (and before) to 2019. It was a thoroughly entertaining ride through our history, with fascinating insights into key moments in our formation and subsequent decades. It’s probably best that I don’t report too much detail of the content and undermine Rick’s further tours, suffice to say that I heartily recommend them to anyone with a passion, like me, for social history, geography, football and a good yarn.

Rick painted a wonderful picture of the area before Chelsea Football Club was formed. And there were whimsical stories about the founding fathers, music hall performers, the club’s first official photographer, music studios, a local lad who became one of the first ball boys and the Moscow Dynamo game in 1945.

It was right up my street, or rather Fulham Road.

One of the same I guess.

I met up with the lads at “Simmons” and it was a real pleasure to see Dave once again. Dave now lives in the South of France with his good lady and their young lad – who, with perfect timing – was born a couple of hours before we won the league at West Brom in 2017. And no, Dave’s son’s name isn’t called Michy.

We last saw Dave on a good old pub crawl around the West End before the debacle against Tottenham at Wembley last season.

It was a joy to see him again.

One of our party was missing however, and it felt odd. Parky was recuperating in a Bath hospital after his hip operation on Thursday. After work on Friday, PD and I had visited him and he was doing well, and in fine form.

This is code for “we couldn’t shut him up.”

With or without Parky, everyone was having a blast. I met up with a few of the usual suspects for the first time of the season in “Simmons” and it felt great. It is a very popular little bar among people I know.

To tie things up nicely with Rick’s pre-game tour, the son of our former chairman Brian Mears was in attendance.

I walked to Stamford Bridge with Dave, and the fifteen-minute journey was riddled with ridiculous laughter.

Good times.

On the forecourt, I tussled with my conscience and for the first time ever, I chose not to buy a home programme. I have tended to only flick through them of late, even though they are a good read, but I have crossed the Rubicon. I gave up buying away ones a good few years ago. I haven’t bought the 2018 FA Cup Final programme, nor the 2019 Europa League programme.

There is only so much space in my house for Chelsea paraphernalia.

Ugh.

Once inside Stamford Bridge, I had a few moments to settle and prepare myself for the game, which until then, had hardly entered my thoughts.

I looked over at the away section and wondered where two supporters were located.

On the Friday, I had received a lovely message from my friend Simon, who is a Sheffield United supporter, and who I have known for over three decades. On my only visit to Bramall Lane in the autumn of 2006, I met up with him at his house and we drove in together. It summed up his take on the current regime, and really brought home how lucky we have been as Chelsea supporters over the last twenty-five years.

“Big match for us tomorrow. Unfortunately, I won’t be there. My brother Chris and nephew Archie will. Either me or Chris need to be around for Mum so it’s difficult for us to go on away trips together. As for the Blades, most fans are in agreement that these last few seasons have been the best ever, certainly in terms of the quality of football and also that Chris Wilder is our greatest ever manager. The season before Wilder was appointed 2015/16 was awful, I remember watching us lose consecutive home games to Bury and Colchester and we finished mid-table League 1. A couple of players from that season are still involved (Billy Sharp and Chris Basham). Before that we had all the Ched Evans stuff, supporters were falling out with each other and it really felt like we’d hit rock bottom. I remember seeing us go down to the old Div 4 in 1981 but this somehow felt much worse. So we’ve come a long way in a short period of time and the pride is back in the club. We’ve made a good start this season and so will be interesting to see how we go tomorrow. Hope you are well Chris and maybe we can meet up at Bramall Lane later on this season.

Best wishes, Simon.”

Since that match in 1994, the two clubs really have enjoyed mixed fortunes, eh?

The place slowly filled up, everyone took their seats. The away team were to be backed by a full three thousand. There weren’t too many away shirts dotted around the away section. I had walked past three Sheffield United fans a couple of hours earlier, each wearing the striped home shirt, looking like they had been refused entry from one pub and were on the search for another. They looked so forlorn. Neutral colours would have at least helped. Some people never learn.

The team was announced and – sadly – N’Golo Kante was missing. No place for Toni Rudiger either, still not match fit. It was a surprise that Tomori started, only his second game for us. Mason Mount was out wide again. Another start for Pulisic. Tammy leading the line.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Tomori – Emerson

Jorginho – Kovacic

Pulisic – Barkley – Mount

Abraham

I was a little disappointed that Sheffield United didn’t show up in their famous red and white stripes. Instead, they chose all white with red socks. Their most famous kit of all was the admiral one from 1976, with black edging on the red stripes. I mention this as it is a kit that my home village side Mells & Vobster United  – or at least the first team, the team I never quite managed to play for – used to wear in that same period too.

I can still see Alan Ford turning away, arm raised, after scoring a belting free-kick in around 1977 wearing the Sheffield United shirt.

There were a few banners adorning the away section.

One, half out of view – said “Hated, Adored” and I presumed that the part of the banner out of view said “Never Ignored.”

Stolen from Manchester United.

Must do better.

The game began, and the atmosphere was so-so. But we began well, with almost total domination of possession. It wasn’t as good a start as against Leicester City, but it wasn’t bad. A few chances came and went. There was an early repetition of the move which lead to our first goal against Norwich City with Christian Pulisic knocking the ball out to an overlapping Cesar Azpilicueta, but the firm cross evaded both the on-rushing Ross Barkley and Tammy Abraham. On twenty minutes, a very similar move earned dividends. Barkley won the ball, moved it to Pulisic and then it was played to Dave, who was deeper than before. His cross was headed down and towards goal by Tammy, and the Sheffield United ‘keeper Dean Henderson had great difficulty in gathering the ball. Under pressure from Pulisic, he could only knock it straight into the path of our young striker.

Playing for Bristol City a few seasons back, Abraham was known as “Tammy Tap In” and he lived up to his reputation.

Chelsea 1 Sheffield United 0.

GET IN.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Tammy’s celebratory run and slide in front of the away fans was just joyous. It was, of course, his first goal at Stamford Bridge.

Beautiful.

We continued to excel.

Ross Barkley was heavily involved in many of our attacks, ably supported by the passing of Jorginho and the runs into space of Kovacic, but very often Barkley simply moved the ball on rather than played an incisive ball into danger. I thought Mason Mount was quiet, and Pulisic struggled to get involved. Kovacic flashed a firm shot past the far post. Sheffield United themselves had a couple of quarter-chances. A quick turn and cross from Chris Basham almost resulted in a stooping headed goal from Callum Robinson

A meek shot into the wall from Ross Barkley free-kick summed up his half.

One moment frustrated us all. The fall fell to Jorginho, centrally positioned and within sight of the goal. Rather than look to fire an effort in on goal, he lofted a pass over the heads of everyone, including the intended Tammy, and the attack died. I commented to the lads that there just must have been something in Jorginho’s footballing DNA – after years of behaviour-inducing drills – to stop him from shooting.

The away fans were relatively quiet all first-half.

Alan and I spent a few moments chatting about the wonderful Ronnie Barker in “Porridge” and we quoted some pearls.

“What, from here?”

“With these feet?”

“It was a green one.”

“He’s doing rather well.”

On the pitch, we were in command, but drifting a little, hence the brief comedic diversion.

Thankfully, with two minutes to go before the break, Jorginho lofted another high ball towards the box and Tammy pounced after a blunder from two of United’s three centre-backs, and picked up a loose ball. He found space well, picked his spot and although the ‘keeper touched the ball, the pace beat him. It crept in, lovely stuff.

Chelsea 2 Sheffield United 0.

“That’s all Tammy has to do, just keep hitting the corners.”

I captured his run and jump on film too.

“Four goals in three starts – love it.”

And all was well with the world at half-time. Dave came over to join us, we took some photos, happy days indeed.

Sadly, the second-half began awfully, and it brought back shocking memories of last season. With less than a minute played, they moved the ball far too easily down our right flank. Enda Stephens wriggled past a non-existent challenge from Dave, and his pacey low cross was flicked home by Robinson. The away end erupted. They were back in it.

We sighed.

The away fans were now ignited and there was a slight whiff of “A gallon of Magnet”, one of the best football songs ever.

“You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy Chip Butty.
Like Sheffield United,
Come fill me again.”

The sky turned darker, to match the mood, and there was a surreal quality of light as rain fell.

We countered relatively quickly. Some gorgeous control from Dave and an intelligent ball in to the box – the epitome of the word “dink” – resulted in a side-footed stab at goal from Tammy that was clawed away by Henderson, down low, and close to him. It was a brilliant save.

Sadly, this was a very rare attack for us in the second-half. The away team sensed that confidence was seeping out of every pore of our being and grabbed hold of the game. They moved the ball well, and we lacked leadership. We looked a poor team suddenly. A couple of chances were exchanged. On the hour, Barkley was replaced by Willian, and we hoped for a far better performance from the Brazilian than against Leicester City. Mount switched inside, surely a better position for him.

Our attacking play was immediately bolstered by a couple of energetic runs from Willian, but that didn’t last. Sheffield United looked the more likely to score and the atmosphere within the stadium became rather tetchy. A lone chance fell to Kurt Zouma but he headed over from a corner. I can rarely remember a half of football which included so many mis-placed passes from so many different players. It was a shock to the system; a visual clue that confidence was low.

Michy Batshuayi replaced the impressive Kovacic, and Billy Gilmour – surprisingly – replaced Tammy Abraham.

I caught Gilmour’s first touch on his debut; a header.

Our attacks stumbled along though. It wasn’t cohesive. I didn’t like the way sections of the crowd grew noisily restless with every miss-placed pass. Rather than a cheer of encouragement there tended to be noisy swearing.

Not good.

Not good at all.

We know our role this season, don’t we?

Shouldn’t we be supporting the lads a little better?

I think so.

Mount went close with a volley. At The Shed End, a timely block from Tomori and we reacted with our heads in our hands.

Fackinell.

Sadly, sadly, sadly the game ended as we had perhaps feared.

Another raid down our right, another “after you Claude” moment, and another whipped-in cross. I could not discern who managed to get the final touch – it was evidently Kurt Zouma – but the ball flashed high into our goal.

This time, the away fans really exploded.

Bollocks.

Another second-half meltdown had left us all rather shell-shocked. As I made my way out, alongside fellow fans who were pursing lips, shaking heads and muttering, I looked up and saw the away supporters enjoying their moment.

Remembering 1994, I clapped too and whispered “well played Sheffield United.”

There was the usual “Bramber Road to Barons Court Post Mortem” in the car, and we honestly wondered if the two late substitutions were wise, but I then reminded ourselves that Frank Lampard OBE has forgotten more about football than the three of us combined will ever ever know, so we quickly shut the fuck up.

To cheer me a little, I heard that my local team Frome Town had gone top of their division with a fourth win out of four, and to cheer us all up, we had heard that Parky was home from hospital.

It was turning into a good day after all.

Chelsea under Frank Lampard is clearly a work in progress. I am not going to waste any time, effort and words on those in our midst who are unnecessarily negative.

Let’s all move on positively.

I will see some of you at Molineux.