Tales From Wet Wolverhampton

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Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2026.

I am happy to report that Parky was able to travel to our game at Wolves after missing the trip to Arsenal during the week. The signs were good; here was a match against the worst Premier League team by a mile, and we surely had to win this one. I collected PD and then Parky and we breakfasted en route before slipping on to the M4 at Chippenham. There was rain in the air, and it didn’t really stop for too many minutes during the whole of my three-hour drive north. Thankfully, from my home in Somerset, a trip to Molineux is one of my easiest away journeys of the season

Knowing that the chance to grab a drink in Wolverhampton city centre is very restricted, I drove to a pub around four miles to the south in a large village called Wombourne. “The Vine” was our base for a couple of hours. We settled next to a roaring log fire, and I kept peering out of the window to check the weather. Sadly, the rain kept falling throughout our stay.

Towards the end of our spell in the lovely boozer, we chatted to a West Brom fan about all sorts of topics related to football, and it was a nice way to seal off an enjoyable pre-match.

With the rain now falling heavily, I drove into the centre of Wolverhampton and aimed for our usual parking place at Broad Street. Molineux appeared down to our left and I was soon parked up. It was 2pm, just right for the 3pm kick-off. We, unfortunately, became drenched on the fifteen-minute walk to the away turnstiles. I had made the decision to leave my SLR camera in the car and use just my mobile phone for the day’s photographs. I knew that my ticket was for a seat at the front of the stand in Row B, so I played the percentage game and decided not to risk my camera becoming wet and possibly damaged.

It felt like a relief not having to go through the usual stresses involved in a potential camera search at the turnstiles. A quick “pat down” and I was in. I soon spotted Alan and Gary with a couple of mates, and we chatted for a while in the roomy concourse, all of us not particularly keen to reach the possibly wet area inside.

Once I reached my seat at about 2.45pm, I was pleasantly surprised. The roof of the Steve Bull Stand extended well over the seats and I was immediately impressed. This was a much-maligned stand when it opened way back in 1980, as it stood so far away from the pitch, prior to an eventual realignment. But it was doing a fine job on this day; plenty of room in the concourse to drink and chat, while a roof that – shock, horror – kept us dry pitch side.

As kick-off approached, there were many areas of empty seats in the home areas, though not as many as at our League Cup game – that crazy 4-3 win – in late October. However, three thousand Chelsea loyalists packed the lower tier alongside the pitch.

The skies were dark, the rain still fell, and I had to feel sorry for the several hundred home supporters perched on the open-air section between the home end and the main stand. At least they had been provided with ponchos. Back in the day, they could have huddled together on a terrace, like penguins possibly, to keep a little drier. Seeing them all sat out in the open just seemed like the worst football experience yet.

With ten minutes to go, club president Robert Plant belted out “Whole Lotta Love” and the teams were announced by the overly keen announcer. Like our team, the Wolves’ starting line-up was dominated by exotic-sounding foreign names. I wondered if their two defenders Hugo Bueno and Santiago Bueno were to be joined at some stage by a less-talented chap called Non Bueno, and I was soon to spot that their lone talisman upfront Tolu Arokodare possessed the body mass of the rest of his teammates combined.

Us?

We were back to the tried-and-tested 4-2-3-1.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevor Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro  

“Hi Ho Silver Lining” was played and this energised the home support. Fair play, for a team destined to be relegated, they made a bloody racket.

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton.”

Wolves, of course, were in their brilliant old gold kit; it’s lovely, isn’t it? Gary, alongside me, admitted that he had a Wolves shirt as a very young child – though he didn’t explain why – and I remembered that my Frome Town mate Steve used to like them as a young lad before he got fully engaged with Bristol City a few years later. I also remember two Wolves supporters in the 1982/83 sixth form. My next-door neighbour follows Wolves. Maybe it’s something about those colours. I can’t think of another team, anywhere, that uses old gold as its main colour. In the UK, I can think of Hull City, Newport County and Albion Rovers who have worn amber and black, but not old gold.

We were in our much admired “off-white” away kit.

The home team, playing left to right for me, probably began the better of the two teams, and it took a while for us to get into the match. After just two minutes, there was a proper scramble in Sanchez’ six-yard box, and I was relieved when an unknown Chelsea defender lumped the ball away.

On ten minutes, in one of our first real attacks, I loved the way that Joao Pedro brought the ball down and then took a touch away from the defenders. There was a lunge by Matt Doherty and our nimble striker fell. A shout went up. After a slight pause, the referee Jarred Gillett pointed at the spot.

Palmer slotted home past Jose Sa.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to Cum On Feel The Noize.”

Chris : “Come on My Friend Stan.”

Our play improved from then, and Wolves became the secondary team. I liked the way we moved the ball quicker than under Maresca, and I loved how Palmer was carrying out his own brand of football alchemy only a few yards away.

A shot from distance for Enzo rattled in but was blocked.

On twenty-four minutes, we enjoyed three efforts in quick succession. First an effort from Cucurella was blocked by Doherty, Caicedo followed up with a shot and then a rabona from Enzo was saved by Sa.

Just after, I again marvelled at how Joao Pedro brought the ball down beautifully, before a quick turn and a blast at goal from an angle that Sa pushed over for a corner. Then a sublime dribble at pace from Joao Pedro – the kind of run you just don’t see much of these days – that took him past opponents with consummate ease.

Then, Gusto ran deep into the box on the far side and smashed a shot goalwards when perhaps a cross might have been the better option. Sa was the equal of it at the near post.

This was nice stuff. We were playing well.

On thirty-five minutes, Joao Pedro attacked the inside-right channel. I didn’t see the ridiculous hands-on push by Yerson Mosquera, I just saw our striker fall.

Another penalty.

Another Palmer strike, this time the other way.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

As he ran again towards the Chelsea contingent, I snapped away with my mobile camera, but the results were horrific.

At around this point, the rain temporarily stopped, as if to rub it in.

A third goal soon followed. And this was a lovely move, so pure and simple. Neto to Fernandez, then out to Cucurella, with me willing him on. He reached the goal-line, spotted Palmer advancing and cut a great ball back into the path of our Number Ten. Palmer dispatched his shot high into the Wolves net. It was struck with such venom. It was a beautiful goal.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Game over, surely?

The home fans must have thought the same. The South Bank met their predicament with gallows humour.

“How shit must you be? It’s only three-nil.”

The afternoon had turned against them, and they were increasingly vociferous in their booing of the referee’s decisions and felt aggrieved at every call given against them. I must admit, the 50-50’s did appear to be mainly going our way.

When Wolves eventually won a free-kick, Gary chortled alongside me.

“Come on ref, you’ve given us nuffing.”

That raised a smile from me.

As the referee blew for half-time, there were massive boos, but all for the referee no doubt.

Half-time came and went, and although – deep-down – I was hopeful for further attacks and further goals, I knew that we had a game on Tuesday and that we just needed to be sensible. There was an early chance for Enzo in the first few moments of the second period as the rain began again. His shot was blocked.

In the same way that we let Wolves back into the game during that crazy second-half in October, I did wonder if we might be in for a slightly rough ride as the second half continued.

I turned to Gary and said “you know what will happen? They will score and it will get shaky.”

Sometimes I hate my footballing sixth sense.

A shot from Mateus Mane was touched onto a post. Then, from a low corner on the Wolves’ left from Mane, the ball was flicked on and Arokodare was able to turn and slot home from mere yards away.

Bollocks. Here we go.

Fifty-four minutes were on the clock.

“Bloody hell, over half-an-hour to go…”

The home team improved throughout the second period, whereas we lost a lot of key battles. Throughout it all, the home fans were still feeling that they were being victimised.

“Premier League. Corrupt as fuck.”

On the hour, Palmer set off on a little run but then stopped and played the ball safely back. He then walked gingerly for a few steps and stretched both legs, and it looked to me that he wasn’t happy with his fitness. Soon after he was substituted by Alejandro Garnacho who took up residence on the left as Neto swapped over.

Wolves probably edged possession in the second period, and I was never at ease. I turned to the bloke behind me and admitted “only Chelsea could be 3-1 up and we are wanting the ref to blow up.”

Young Ernie, to my left in the front row, got the crowd going with a couple of lovely “Zigger Zaggers”. He is soon becoming one of our most famous fans, bless him.

A header from Mosquera bothered the souls in the South Bank rather than Sanchez.

On seventy-one minutes, Arakodare had a pacey run, but Fofana did just enough to put him off. His shot was a weak one, and straight at Sanchez.

With fifteen minutes to go, a double substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-four minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Santos.

Just after, Neto was free and unmarked but misfired horribly with a header. He then hit the side netting with a shot and Delap struck a shot at Sa.

Despite seven long minutes of injury time, we held on.

We “held on?” Yes, it seemed like it.

The Chelsea crowd were full of “Palmer again” bravado as we all exited the concourse into the rain, and I met up with the two lads outside. PD and I devoured a bacon cheeseburger with onions as we sheltered under the entrance to a building and we then slowly headed back to the car. Luckily, a lot of the traffic had already vacated the area, and the route back to the M6 at Walsall was quicker than usual.

This had been my twelfth ever visit to Molineux. In the last three visits we have scored thirteen goals, and I have to say I will miss it next season,

On Tuesday, Leeds United visit Stamford Bridge.

…just writing those words.

Tales From Much Ado About Nothing

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.

I was at the end of my own little personal stretch of eight consecutive games in London: four at HQ, one at Charlton, one at Fulham, one at Palace and now this one at Arsenal. During the day, I was asked about my thoughts of the outcome of the League Cup semi-final second leg at the Emirates. I wasn’t sure about guessing a score, but my prediction was that we had a 25% chance of progressing to the final at Wembley. After the first-leg loss, Arsenal would be a tough nut to crack.

Unfortunately, Parky had failed a late fitness test, so just PD accompanied me on this occasion.

We had been given almost six thousand tickets for this game, and I was delighted that Arsenal had not charged us an exorbitant price for tickets. Unlike the £60 for my ticket at Stamford Bridge, I paid just a little over £30 for this one at Arsenal.

The drive east in the afternoon was not easy. I drove through rain and spray on the M4. I had felt tired, at times, during my shift at work, and after getting up at the loony time of 4.30am, I was obviously dreading more tiredness both to and from London, but hopefully not at the game. Only time would tell on that one.

For years and years, we have parked for free on the road adjacent to Barons Court tube station – Margravine Gardens – for aways against Arsenal, Tottenham and West Ham, conveniently just off the A4, but I happened to notice new parking regulations were in place. Free parking used to be available in after 5pm on weekdays, but now it was after 10pm every day. This was a big kick in the teeth.

Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.

What did this mean?

It meant that I had to divert south to where I park for midweek home games, and we then had to walk over half-a-mile to West Brompton tube station. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Paul struggles with such distances. And this is yet another example of how the pleasure that comes from a day at the football is slowly being eroded.

However, we made the best of it and stopped off at my favourite restaurant on the North End Road for a couple of pizzas and then continued a rather wet walk to West Brompton. There was a change onto the Piccadilly Line at Earl’s Court, and then the thirty-five minute journey, through thirteen stations, to Arsenal.

I heard occasional shouts of “Carefree” further down the carriages, but the train obviously contained a few Arsenal supporters too. A family of five were positioned to my left and caught my eye. They stood and sat close to PD, and they each wore a different Arsenal replica shirt. I caught PD’s eye and shook my head. You just don’t see that at Chelsea; a whole bloody family kitted out in club shirts. The father even wore his home shirt over a normal sweatshirt – a real sartorial own-goal in my book – and topped it off with a bobble hat. He couldn’t have looked more gormless if he had tried. And talking of replica kits, the three sons were certainly replica kids – absolute spitting images of their parents – but it worried me that their mother and father looked alike too.

Let’s leave that there, eh?

Up through the tight tunnels at Arsenal, and out into a miserable wet North London night. Rather than turn left as we did when we used to visit Highbury, we know turned right and headed up the long stretch of Drayton Park, past an impressive amount of souvenir stands. PD was still struggling with walking. Eventually we turned right towards the stadium, opposite the Drayton Park Arms – still an away pub I believe – just in time for a few young Arsenal and Chelsea to lads take a pop at one another.

The neon colours of the stadium were reflected in the puddles outside and helped create a photogenic, if watery, feel to a smattering of photos that were taken.

We were in quickly, out of the rain, at 7.20pm and took our seats not long after. PD was seated right next to the three seats of “no man’s land” between us and the Arsenal support, while I, thankfully, was further away, and in row eighteen, well under the roof. Those sitting in the first few rows were in for a soaking.

There were many familiar faces dotted around this lower tier. The split was three thousand in the lower, and a further three thousand high up in the top tier to my left. It annoyed me that away season ticket holders were denied choosing the upper tier. I would have loved to have watched the game up there for the first time, as – I am sure – would many.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The players were on the pitch going through their pre-match drills. They were wearing a homage to the worst Chelsea kit of all time, the hideous tangerine and graphite monstrosity from the mid-‘nineties, complete with the most hated badge of all time, that nasty Millwall lookalike.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The place filled up, and – what a surprise – yet another club has chosen “London Calling” as an intro before the teams stepped foot on the pitch.

We then had to endure the historic “Good old Arsenal” ditty which I always forget about until I hear it at their stadium. It certainly doesn’t have the lasting resonance of the theme from “Z Cars” at Everon nor “Marching on Together” at Leeds, to name but two.

Next, a light show…oh please stop this…let’s get to the football.

The teams eventually appeared.

I was surprised how many Chelsea clapped Noni Madueke when the team line-ups were named. Nobody clapped Kepa Arrizabalaga.

Us?

It took a while for me to work it all out. In fact, I needed to see the players on the pitch before I had a chance.

In goal?

Easy, Robert Sanchez.

It then got a little difficult.

It looked like three central defenders.

Wesley Fofana on the right, in front of us, then Trevoh Chalobah in the middle, then Jorrel Hato on the left.

We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.

OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.

Andrey Santos and Moises Caicedo were playing, holding things together.

It looked like Enzo Fernandez was playing a little higher up the pitch.

But we then had Joao Pedro in attack alongside Liam Delap, but with Delap drifting over to the right wing at every opportunity.

Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?

We dominated the early possession, much to my pleasure, and in the sixth minute, Delap came in from the right but scuffed a snapshot well wide of Kepa’s right-hand post. That the striker then kept to the right flank for the rest of the half certainly caused a stir among the Chelsea faithful.

Arsenal forced a series of corners, and we watched as three of our attackers raced out of the box at the last minute, dragging some Arsenal players with them.

This lad Liam Rosenior certainly has some “left-field” – or maybe “right-field” – ideas that he is not afraid to use.

For a while, there was a commotion above and behind me as some Chelsea lads tried to pin a beautiful blue flag – featuring the 1984 two-tone colours – on the top balcony wall. That kit is synonymous with us at Highbury, and I loved that the flag was being given an airing at Arsenal’s new pad. By now, that top section was crammed full of our supporters, and I noticed that every single seat was being used in my section, a fine showing.

Robert Sanchez palmed away an effort from Piero Hincapie, whoever he is, and Gabriel Martinelli made a mess of the rebound.

The home fans weren’t particularly loud once they had settled down after their warbling to the “North London Forever” dirge before kick-off.

North London forever, you say? Not until 1913, you mean. It took until then for the Woolwich Wanderers to settle.

On twenty-six minutes, Moises Caicedo shot wide, well wide.

Wesley Fofana enjoyed an absolutely top-notch purple patch over ten glorious minutes, heading away, recovering well, tackling, playing it out with calmness personified. Excellent work.

The Chelsea choir asked, “is this a library?” and I wondered if the home support were saving themselves for another corner before they might get excited.

On thirty-three minutes, we were all concerned when Gusto let Martinelli get past him, but he recovered so well and saved the day with a bloody superb tackle.

Chances dried up at either end. Although Chelsea seemed to edge possession, there was a paucity of efforts on goal.

At various times in that first-half, that promised so much but delivered so little, Delap managed to fall over the ball, fall over his legs, fall over his marker’s legs, and sometimes run in the opposite direction to the ball. His continued presence in that position confused me, but I – at least – gave some sort of credit to Rosenior in his attempts to confuse the opposition too.

In the forty-third minute, at last a shot. An effort from Enzo was dramatically punched away by Kepa.

It was 0-0 at the break, and I have to say that the mood within the packed away support was positive. I think that many of us solemnly expected that we might get torn apart, so I think that the fact that were still very much in the tie helped us battle our overall feelings of dread.

The rain still fell as the second half began with Chelsea attacking the two zones of Chelsea support in the Clock End.

In the very first minute, Enzo came over to take a corner right in front of us. The ball dropped in to the near post area and the ball was stabbed at goal, took a deflection, but still went wide.

The game became a little scrappy, with niggling tackles all over the pitch, but the Chelsea support remained loud, giving the team some excellent support. When it got going in both sections it reminded me of our support at an FA Cup tie at Villa a few years ago – Enzo’s finest game in a Chelsea shirt – and at Arsenal on this wet old night the usual Chelsea songs were defiantly sung with passion and, er, gusto.

Joao Pedro was putting in a very strong performance all game, showing some neat touches of skill, and a surprising amount of strength when needed. He is impressing me of late.

Again, we were still in this tie.

A little secret; on the drive up to London, wary of a potentially long night ahead, PD had asked what we would do if we were losing 0-3 at half-time. Would we leave? My response was that we would hang on to the hour mark.

On sixty-one minutes, we saw Estevao and Cole Palmer appear on the far side, and they replaced Delap and Hato. A bloke in front of me, who had just returned from the loos, asked his mates who had come off.

I leaned forward and replied “Delap came off twice.”

So, was this Rosenior’s game plan? Get Arsenal used to a cumbersome lump on the wing for an hour, then replace him with a spritely wing wizard, and change the shape too, plus the bonus of Cole Palmer?

If this came off, I was ready to doff my non-existent cap.

We increased our possession with the two additions, and in one move we had the agreeable sight of both Palmer and Estevao attacking down the left within yards of each other. A shot from outside the box from Cucurella curled just wide.

If only we could hit the bloody target.

On sixty-four minutes, the best move of the match, but Enzo shot wildly over. This followed nice wing play from Estevao following a perfect pass from Palmer.

Joao Pedro fell after a challenge from Gabriel but it looked like a dive to me.

“Fucking embarrassing”.

The bloke in front agreed.

Arsenal made some quality substitutions of their own; on came Leandro Trossard and Kai Havertz, who was booed by a sizeable proportion of our support.

I whispered “fasten yer seatbelts” to the bloke to my left.

The mercurial Alejandro Garnacho appeared after seventy-five minutes, replacing Santos. He took his position on the left with Estevao flipping over to the right. This was a case of “do or die” now, but Chelsea found it difficult to squeeze the ball through the packed home defence. Too often the ball was played into the middle, expecting too much from Joao Pedro, and our wingers were not utilised as much as I, for one, wanted.

On eighty-one minutes, another Enzo corner and a Fofana flick, just wide.

Then, just after, an Arsenal break but a beautifully timed sliding tackle by Chalobah as Martinelli looked to exploit some space on the right.

I pleaded with Garnacho to run at his defender and make something happen, but I don’t think he ever did. And virtually every time that he chose to cut back and cross, the ball was blocked.

After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

The game continued, but the Chelsea players still tended to slowly move the ball from player to player with the fans being the only ones showing the right amount of passion. I wondered if it had sunk in that a place at bloody Wembley was at stake here.

On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.

Fackinell.

There was frustration everywhere in our ranks, but I was pleased and proud to note that hardly any of us were disappearing early. We would see this out.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

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

We continued on.

Alas, Arsenal broke on ninety-six minutes, and they had spare men.

I spotted who was free on the right.

“Oh no, Havertz.”

We all watched in agony as he touched the ball past Sanchez and neatly slotted the ball home.

It was, awfully, not unlike a goal he scored one night in Porto.

Bollocks.

The referee blew up, and that was that.

Our travels had taken us to Lincoln, to Wolverhampton, to Cardiff and London, but there was no silverware in the League Cup this season.

With a deep sense of resignation that we never really gave it a go until very late on, we turned and began the slow shuffle towards the exits. I did that thing where I faced away from the pitch, but semi-turned to clap the players as they walked over to our support.

It was a very slow, and wet, walk back to Highbury & Islington tube station. For about fifteen minutes, we did not move an inch as we waited on the Holloway Road.

The Arsenal fans were jubilant and one bloody song kept repeating.

“60 million down the drain, Kai Havertz scores again”

I always remember reading a fan’s reminiscences about walking down the Seven Sisters Road after two consecutive semi-final defeats to Arsenal in the FA Cup in the ‘fifties – it was probably Scott Cheshire, that great Chelsea historian – and how depressed he felt. These were in the days when Chelsea, almost fifty years old, had not won a single thing, and so just imagine how those defeats must have hurt.

This hurt, but it was absolutely nowhere near the same scale of sadness.

At least it meant we could enjoy a first-ever visit to Everton’s new stadium on a Saturday rather than a Tuesday night.

We reached King’s Cross at 11pm, and we eventually got back to West Brompton. I shot off to pick up the car, and collected PD outside the station bang on midnight.

I eventually reached home at 2.20am.

I am never one for hitting the sack straight away; I need to scan my photos to see what I had taken, plus there is the inevitable late-night chit-chat with pals in the U.S.

I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.

4.30am to 3.30am.

Bloody hell, Chelsea.

Tales From A Perfect Day

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 31 January 2026.

Prior to our London derby – the District Line Derby of old – at home to West Ham United, our results had experienced a noticeable upturn, and there was an air of positivity as I collected my three mates – PD, Glenn and Parky – and then set off nice an early for yet another trip to HQ.

I had been unable to watch our magnificent away win in Naples on the Wednesday, but it was the sort of result that brings such a depth of joy that is difficult to beat.

The four of us had a big day ahead. PD was celebrating his sixty-fourth birthday, and so for the second time in three weeks we were staying over in deepest Fulham after the game. I was parked up at just after 10am in the car park of the Premier Inn at Putney Bridge, and we dropped into “The Eight Bells” where Salisbury Steve and Jimmy the Greek were waiting for us. The place, not surprisingly, was virtually empty. It was, after all, around seven and a half hours until the game began.

From there, we headed west to six more pubs along the River Thames, gathering friends along the way, and all of us enjoyed this fantastic pre-match ramble. I sorted out an Uber to take us to the first of the pubs, “Old City Arms” next to Hammersmith Bridge. Ian and his son Bobby – aka “Small Bob”, aka “Bobby Small” – were already there. It was just after 11.15am. From here, we took in five more pubs, all favourites, all located next to the Thames. In “The Blue Anchor” we were joined by our good friends Hans and Jon from Norway, and the famous brothers Dave and Glenn, plus their mate Eddy. We hopped next door to “The Rutland” and Jon’s son Sven joined us. At “The Dove” we squeezed together out on the terrace that overlooked the river and met up with Rob and his wife Alex. Here, Dave from Northampton joined up with us too. Next was “The Old Ship” and then the last port of call, “The Black Lion” which we reached at about 3.45pm.

The weather was unbelievable. Not a hint of rain. A fantastic afternoon in and out of the sun, and in and out of these magnificent pubs. It’s interesting, looking back, when I realise that we never really spoke about the game at all.

We ordered two Ubers to get ourselves down to Fulham Broadway. It had been a perfect pre-match. One for the ages.

As soon as Glenn and I set foot on the Fulham Road, we were really chuffed to bump into an old friend – Olly, now eighty-one – who we used to chat to in The Harwood Arms thirty years ago. He was wearing his trademark blue-and-white Chelsea bar scarf and was equally happy to remember us. We had not seen him for a few years. I always remember that we sat with him in “The Seven Stars” on the North End Road after we won the FA Cup in 1997, and after the Cup had been paraded at Fulham Broadway on the Sunday. A lovely time.

We wolfed down a hot dog apiece and made our way into Stamford Bridge. Waiting for us in The Sleepy Hollow was Alan.

The boys were back together again; four of us in a row.

Chris, Alan, Glenn, PD.

Throughout the afternoon, a couple of friends had been updating me with news of Frome Town’s home game with Willand Rovers. While we were setting up to leave the last pub, a text game through to say that Albie Hopkins, a local Frome lad, had scored. And as I made my way into Stamford Bridge, I heard that this is how the match had ended.

Frome Town’s overall record in the league this season is an admirable 23-4-2. In the last ten games, the team has dropped just two points. My hometown club remained eleven points clear at the top.

Frome Town 73.

Malvern Town 62.

Portishead Town 60.

Winchester City 58.

Shaftesbury 54.

We are also top of the home attendance figures too.

Frome Town 499.

Melksham Town 392.

Malvern Town 343.

Portishead Town 336.

Winchester City 323.

The kick-off at Stamford Bridge was not far away, and I checked Liam Rosenior’s choices.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Jorrel Hato

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Jamie Gittens – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

The match began and we attacked The Shed and began well enough.

“COME ON CHELS.”

However, after just seven minutes – just as I was juggling pub camera and mobile ‘phone – I looked up to see a cross from Jarod Bowen that ridiculously avoided everyone and bounced equidistant from the two central defenders, who both turned around to see who had tapped them on the shoulders, and in front of the ‘keeper. The ball squirmed in at the far post.

Bollocks.

The three-thousand visiting supporters roared, and our hearts dipped.

“1-0 to the Cockney Boys.”

Ugh.

On fourteen minutes, a Badiashile error, but a shot from Valentin Castellanos was saved by Robert Sanchez at his near post.

We were dominating the ball but were doing nothing at all with it.

I commented to Alan “Gittens is hard work.”

There was a moment just after when one of our centre-backs had the ball, and was not under a great deal of pressure, but there was simply no movement from anyone in a blue shirt ahead of him. It was infuriating. I started yelling into the abyss.

Our play was terrible. There was no physicality, no desire; just a timid bunch of players who seemed lost.

On twenty-six minutes, we were forced into a change as Gittens was injured. Pedro Neto took his place.

A shot from Moises Caicedo flew past Alphonse Areola in the West Ham goal.

On thirty-six minutes, a long ball out of defence found Bowen, who passed forward to Aaron Wan-Bissaka. His cutback was adeptly poked home by Crysencio Summerville.

The Cockneys and the Mockneys roared again.

Another ugh.

This was awful.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

The Irons continued.

“Build it up with Claret and Blue.”

Just horrible.

This was my thirty-first Chelsea vs. West Ham United game at Stamford Bridge and our record in the previous thirty had been fantastic.

Won 20

Drew 6

Lost 4

I remembered the four losses vividly and I had bad vibes about this one now.

Just on half-time, West Ham had a corner down below us. I watched the Chelsea players just pacing around with no urgency, nobody talking to each other, nobody cajoling others to roll up their sleeves and get close to their men, nobody taking the lead, nobody shouting.

What a terrible sight.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

I muttered to a few friends, with no joy, that the first-half performance that I had just witnessed just might have possibly been the worst I had ever seen.

We had nothing. We had hardly carved out a single chance. I remember a Cole Palmer free kick, but that was the sum of our efforts on goal. Alejandro Garnoch – God, I want him to do well – had been dire, as had many.

It had been such a pallid, tame, grey performance.

There were, unsurprisingly, three changes at the break.

Wesley Fofana for Badiashile.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Joao Pedro for Garnacho.

I liked the idea of Joao Pedro playing just behind Delap but hoped that he wouldn’t get too tired chasing after his knockdowns.

However, the improvements were not immediate. After forty-seven minutes, we had to rely on a fantastic save from Sanchez from Mateus Fernandes, and three minutes later a quickly taken free kick resulted in a shot from Bowen that Sanchez saved again.

On fifty-five, Cucurella played in to Delap, but a delicate touch took the ball wide of the far post.

Two minutes later, a tantalisingly good cross from Fofana on our right was aimed perfectly at the leap of Joao Pedro. From close-in, he scored.

GET IN.

The bridge, at last – it had been so quiet – got going.

“CAREFREE. WHEREVER YOU MAY BE. WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.”

Immediately, our players now looked like they wanted it. Their body language changed and there was a bounce in their step.

After an hour of horrendous football, the boys were back in town.

On sixty-three minutes, a thunderous blast from Caicedo was superbly saved by Areola.

Four minutes later, a shot from Castellanos whizzed past a post, low and wide.

On seventy minutes, a deep cross from Neto on our left was headed back across the goal by Malo Gusto. A defender headed the ball onto the bar as Delap jumped with him, and the ball bounced down. In came a diving Cucurella to head it home.

The net rippled.

What a goal.

What a moment.

I found myself standing in the walkway above my seat, punching the air with booth fists, only to see the bloke behind me doing exactly the same thing. We screamed at each other. It could not have been choreographed any better.

Bloody hell.

Then VAR stepped in.

The goal stood.

I didn’t cheer the VAR decision.

The game continued. The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. The visitors were silent now.

On eighty-one minutes, Reece James replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, a snapshot from West Ham’s Jean-Clair Todibo hit the side netting. How he missed I will never ever know.

Cole Palmer slapped a low shot towards goal that was deflected away at the last moment by a West Ham defender.

Fackinell.

Referee Anthony Taylor’s assistant signalled five minutes of extra-time.

Could we do it?

In the second minute of added time, Palmer played the ball square to Caicedo. An intelligent run by Joao Pedro was spotted by our Moi. At this stage I pulled my camera up to my eyes and caught a very blurred shot of the pullback to Enzo. I clicked as the Argentinian shot – a ridiculously blurred photo – and exploded with joy as I saw the net ripple.

I was up on my feet yelling like a lunatic. Inside I was boiling over, outside I was beaming a huge smile, But I bizarrely I remained stupidly calm to take some photos of the scorer.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some of them worked. I hope you like them.

Late on, we watched on from afar as some players lost control down near Parkyville. It took forever to work out what was happening, and again the folk watching on TV must have had more of a clue than us. There was a VAR check, but nobody in the stadium knew which player was being scrutinised for a possible red card.

In the end, in the eleventh minute of added time, Jean-Clair Todibo was ordered off.

Soon after, the whistle blew.

What a last half-hour. What a comeback. What a day.

By now, only PD and I were left in our row in The Sleepy Hollow, and we sang along to “Blue Is The Colour” like a couple of sixty-four and sixty-year-old schoolkids.

Fantastic.

Eventually we made our way out, and we walked through “Jimmy’s” down below us. I bumped into Paul from Reading – his smile wide – and after a few seconds we found ourselves in an embrace, bouncing up and down like bleeding idiots.

Outside on the Fulham Road, we met up with PD and Jimmy, and we wolfed down some cheeseburgers.

Then, over to Frankie’s where we bumped into a brilliant cross-section of Chelsea friends and faces. Jason Cundy was holding court in the corner, ex-player Garry Stanley breezed in, we met up with Alex and Rob again, plus a few famous and infamous Chelsea personalities.

The three of us returned to “The Eight Bells” where we met up with Hans, Jon and Sven once again.

At about 11pm, I left PD and Parky to it and trotted over to room 310.

It had been a bloody perfect day.

Oh and – this:

Played 31

Won 21

Drew 6

Lost 4

Next up, Arsenal in the League Cup Semi-Final.

I will see six thousand of you there.

Outside And Inside The Pubs Of Hammersmith And Fulham

Outside And Inside Stamford Bridge.

The Birthday Boy With Garry Stanley.

Tales From An In-And-Out Mission

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Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.

Tales From A Never-Ending Story

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Chelsea vs. Pafos : 21 January 2026.

January 2026 is a busy month for Chelsea Football Club, and a busy month for me. At the end of it I will have driven 1,400 miles in support of my team encompassing seven trips to London and one trip to Manchester. You can throw in around 20,000 words too.

However, when the alarm sounded at 4.30am, I was not overjoyed to be getting up so early to get stuck into an early shift at work which allowed to drive up to London for the Champions League game with Pafos.

A very long day was ahead of me, and there was a definite ambivalence to the thought of the match at the end of it. This first phase of the Champions League schedule seemed to go on for ever.

“Is it not finished yet? It’s the middle of bloody January!”

No, we still had two more games to play, despite starting off against Bayern in Bavaria in the middle of September some four months ago. UEFA’s pathetic desire for “more, more, more” meant that the old group phase of six matches has now grown to eight, with the threat of an extra couple of play-offs games thrown in too.

It felt to me, as I made my way over to Melksham at 5.30am, that this competition was never-ending.

And I disliked it – the format – so much. Eight random games, spread out over four months, what is there to like?

Originally, I thought about having my own little pathetic protest by not going to the extra fourth game that UEFA had foisted upon us, and the match with Pafos was very likely to be the game that I would decide to avoid. But then Chelsea threatened us season ticket holders with not getting our own seat if we did not buy all four home games, and so my one game boycott didn’t get off the ground.

Ironically, a bout of ill-health meant that I still missed a game – Barcelona – but was too ill to even think about getting my money back by selling that ticket back to the club. It was all a bit of mess.

So, Pafos, then, and a visit by David Luiz’ new club. I last saw him playing for Flamengo in the Maracana eighteen months ago. As the day developed, I was unaware that he had received a knock at the weekend.

Unfortunately, the tousle-haired defender was not the only person who was unable to take part in the evening’s entertainment. PD was suffering with flu and so I was accompanied by just Parky on the trip to London. Heavy traffic over the last few miles meant that I wasn’t parked until 5.30pm, some three-and-a-half hours after leaving work. There had been plans to head down to the pub, but it was a rainy old night in deepest Fulham and so I sought refuge in my usual midweek restaurant; calamari and moussaka this week. I then dropped into another favourite café for a coffee. This killed a nice amount of time and helped me avoid getting too wet.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 7.15pm.

Through the day I had contemplated some word play involving our opponents from Cyprus.

Pafos.

From the city of Paphos.

I kept thinking of pathos; “a quality that evokes pity or sadness.”

I wondered who would be sad at the end of the night.

Us or them?

To give ourselves the best chance of reaching the top eight in the “league of thirty-two teams” we needed to win, desperately, against Pafos, especially since our last game was a very tricky away trip to Napoli. This huge listing of thirty-two teams has hardly caught my attention at all, and I suspect that it will only really be studied when there is just one game left. What a tedious process.

Soon after I reached my seat, I spotted the Pafos players warming up at The Shed. I heard David Luiz’ name mentioned by the stadium announcer, and I saw it featured on the TV screen. I therefore presumed that he was playing. I searched hard for his familiar features on the pitch but could not locate him anywhere. There was a bloke with long hair who looked like Matthew McConaughey, but not David Luiz. I was momentarily stumped.

I did briefly wonder if, unbeknown to any of us, a few Hollywood types had watched on from afar at the Wrexham phenomenon and had wanted a piece of the action too. Literally. Perhaps they had secretly taken over this little-known Cypriot club – only formed in 2014 – and had changed their names so they could experience Champions League football for themselves.

That was it, then.

Ivan Sunjic was really Matthew McConaughey.

Jay Gorter was Ben Stiller.

Bruno Langa was Will Smith.

Pepe was Seth Rogen.

Georgios Michael? Surely not.

As for us, the Chelsea all-stars lined up as follows :

Jorgensen

Gusto – Fofana – Badiashile – Hato

James – Caicedo

Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho

Delap

It feels like whoever is the Chelsea manager these days just spins a wheel to decide centre-back pairings.

There seemed to be many tickets going spare on various social media sites during the build-up to this game, and Sir Les reckoned that only around 32,000 would be inside for this one, despite whatever gate is officially announced. Without PD, Clive and Alan alongside me, it felt odd to be by myself at Stamford Bridge for this game. I could see empties all over the stadium and guessed that the place was maybe two or three thousand shy of a sell-out.

Flames, fireworks, the Champions League anthem.

At 8pm, kick-off, and Chelsea attacked the Matthew Harding Stand.

Hey, it was a terrible game, right?

It really did not have much going for it at all. I noted, as I tend to do at most games these days, some important bits and pieces on my ‘phone as the first half began, but looking at them now, they only illustrate the paucity of entertaining stuff on show.

The tone of the evening was set in the first few minutes when a Reece James free kick down below us did not get past the first man, and then a pass out from the ‘keeper Filip Jorgensen went out for a throw-in to Pafos. There then followed a couple more mistakes. Less than ten minutes had gone, and it was already setting up to be a shocker.

It seemed that the only bright spot of the entire evening was the Pafos ‘keeper Jay Gorter’s all red kit.

On ten minutes, Pedro Neto cut in from the right, and shot over, as he invariably does these days.

Looking at Liam Delap leading the line, then coming short to play the ball back to supporting team members, I wondered if we actually see him play the ball with aplomb to the likes of Enzo and James, or do we just witness a heavy touch that sometimes results in the ball ending up at the feet of a team mate. Answers on a postcard.

A lovely twist and turn from Enzo set up a shot from James from outside the box, but it whizzed past the right-hand post. I thought it was in.

On around twenty minutes, a cross from Neto, a leap from Enzo and a goal. But the referee called it back for a push by our Argentinian.

I grew tired of Alejandro Garnacho receiving the ball in a wide position, one-on-one with a defender, yet unwilling to take him on, and play the ball back to a central defender. I wondered if Pat Nevin, in his prime, ever had the ball at his feet and chose to play the ball back to Joe McLaughlin. Answers on another postcard.

On twenty-two minutes, Garnacho fell over down below us, and I wondered if Pat Nevin ever did that either.

It was tedious “pass, pass, pass, pass” stuff, and the bloke behind me said that it would be even worse in the second half when all this monotonous football would be taking place down the other end of the pitch towards The Shed.

I grimly replied, “oh well, best make the most of it.”

On the half-hour, a rare Pafos attack and the ball reached Jaja – or was it Lady Gaga? – on the left. His shot was deflected onto the near post, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

The two-thousand or so Pafos fans were some of the quietest visitors I have witnessed at The Bridge. Most remained seated the entire game.

Benoit Badiashile went wide with a header, and after some typical doggedness from Enzo, the ball fell to Moises Caicedo who forced a fine reaction save from Gorter.

Another shot from Caicedo was pushed away by Gorter, who was quickly becoming the man of the moment.

On a rare break into our half, the Pafos number seven Bruno – with the original Willian-style hair – broke away but Garnacho made a fantastic sliding tackle.

Throughout the entire half we watched as Reece James dropped corner after corner towards the near post. Most of them were dapped away with ease.

In injury time, the move of the match, and Caicedo set up Jorrel Hato but his strongly struck shot was well saved by Gorter.

The half-time stats on the TV screen showed Chelsea with 68% possession. It seemed a lot more. My man of the half was Enzo, equally strong in attack and defence.

At the break, Liam Rosenior made two substitutions. Bizarrely, Robert Sanchez replaced Jorgensen, while Estevao Willian replaced James. Enzo dropped back while Neto came into the middle and did his best to receive Delap’s knockdowns.

The second half began against a silent backdrop. The place really was so quiet.

I said to the stranger next to me that “I have seen more exciting games of draughts.”

However, just as those words exited my mouth, a pass from Delap to Enzo and a delightful chip towards Estevao brought a cracking first-time volley from the young Brazilian, but also another fine save by Gorter at his near post.

The game meandered on.

The rain fell.

Around the hour mark, the football improved slightly. Gorter fumbled a shot but recovered well. Then some neat play out on our left and a frankly unnerving back-heel from Benoit Badiashile set up Estevao who weaved inside but saw his firm shot blocked.

On sixty-five minutes, we recovered from a terrible Fofana back-pass and in the very next move we broke rapidly, and the ball was pushed towards Garnacho. He was one on one with the ‘keeper but his shot was blocked by the outstretched leg of Drew Barrymore.

Two more efforts on the Pafos goal.

Caicedo from distance; saved.

Garnacho again; over.

Fackinell.

On seventy minutes, a triple substitution.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Joao Pedro for Delap.

With a quarter of an hour remaining, the crowd suddenly put their big boy pants on, and got behind the team

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

A few minutes later, Sir Les started to make his exit. Like us, he was headed back to Melksham.

“Can’t watch any more of this crap.”

Thirty seconds later, I found myself commentating as Neto took a corner.

“Another floater to the near post…oh, we’ve done it.”

Les had just missed the goal. I felt for him.

A Fofana knock-on at the near post, then a Caicedo jump to head home towards the far post, and the players celebrated down near Parkyville.

GET IN.

Chelsea 1 Pafos 0.

Bizarrely, this seemed to ignite the away team, and they played their best football of the game in the closing moments.

On eighty-nine minutes, Georgios Michael replaced Whoopi Goldberg, the last of their five subs, and that was that. I was annoyed that David Luiz never appeared from the bench. I final “thank you and goodbye” would have been lovely.

I met up with Parky and we drove back to the west of England. My fifth of eight consecutive games in London were in the bag, with just trips to Selhurst Park, Stamford Bridge – again – and The Emirates to go.

Oh, the gate?

The official Chelsea site claimed 39,200. Elsewhere it was given as 30,774.

The actual figure?

Answers on a postcard.

Tales From A Day With Foreign Friends

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Chelsea vs. Brentford : 17 January 2026.

PD, Parky and I were heading to the capital once again. The league game at home to Brentford would be our fourth of eight consecutive matches in London.

On the drive east, we spoke about the two domestic cup competitions.

The tickets for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final at Arsenal will go on sale from Tuesday 20 January, and I fancied the idea of watching from the upper tier at The Emirates for the first time. We have an allocation of 5,975. The last time that we went to Arsenal for a semi-final, we were all in the lower tier. The only problem with this game will be the time we get back home in Somerset. I am guessing it will be around 2.30am. Oh the joys.

Sadly, none of us will be attending the FA Cup tie at Hull City on Friday 13 February, and the main reason is that I can’t afford to give up a whole day’s holiday for another domestic game when I might have to use my last few days for the Champions League. It’s a shame, because we don’t mind visiting Hull. We have good memories of our visit in the FA Cup in 2020. The hotel that cost us £7.50 each still gets a smile six years on.

Brentford were one of the form teams in the Premier League and were one place above us – fifth – in the table ahead of our encounter at Stamford Bridge. We knew we would be in for a tough game. All eyes would be on their free-scoring Brazilian Igor Thiago. At work on Friday, I predicted a 2-2 draw when a Brentford-supporting colleague enquired of my thoughts.

I was forced to park way out, by Queens Club, and it took me a full twenty-five minutes to reach Stamford Bridge by foot.

I met up with some friends from the US at Stamford Bridge at 11am.

Ben, from Baton Rouge in Louisiana has been a mate since 2012. I last saw him in Wroclaw in May. Matt from DC has been a friend for only a few years, and I last saw him in Philly in June. I have known Josh, though, since around 2008, and we first met at a game in Baltimore in 2009. This was Josh’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge, and it was fantastic to see him. I saw him in Philly in June too. Josh hails from Louisville in Kentucky and was with two fellow Chelsea supporters Roger and Andy. We were able to chat to a few of the former players who take part in the hospitality at Stamford Bridge. John Boyle was especially entertaining as he reminisced on a visit to Los Angeles with Chelsea when Tommy Docherty was the manager, and how he was captain of the Tampa Bay Rowdies team that won the “Soccer Bowl” against the Portland Timbers in San Jose in 1975.

We then decamped to “The Eight Bells”, no big surprises there, eh?

We met up with the usual crowd and chatted about a million things at once.

This was the day of the protest against Clearlake, and we had been tipped off to arrive at the turnstiles a little earlier than usual. To that end, we caught the tube back to Fulham Broadway at around 1.30pm. I took the lads over to meet Mark at his stall.

“I always say the same thing to first time visitors, Marco…if we lose today, Josh isn’t coming back.”

Josh replied “well, I have three games to get that win.”

I replied “you might need four.”

The so-called protest did not amount to anything much. I am all for demonstrations and free-speech, but I was never sure what would be accomplished by a protest out on the Fulham Road (it was outside the “Kona Kai” – or “Vloggers Corner” as I call it) and by the time I reached it, just random Chelsea songs were being chanted, and I walked away when a young kid of around fourteen was singing about “bugle”.

It was time to get inside.

At 2pm, I was in, and it allowed me time to relax before the game. I spotted a couple of tourist-types (replica shirts, scarves) taking selfies in the gangway behind my seat and I volunteered to take their photos in front of the empty pitch and stadium. We got chatting and they were from Iceland, just outside Reykjavik, and of course Eidur Gudjohnsen’s name soon came up.

“He is why I am a Chelsea fan.”

The stadium filled. I checked the team.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Tosin – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The three Kentuckians would be watching from the Matthew Harding Lower. Ben, who was with his father, would be watching in a hospitality area, while Matt would be watching a few yards away from me in the Matthew Harding Upper. Now then, dear reader – for those of a nervous disposition, you might want to skip over this next sentence or two – Matt is a lovely bloke and I have met his wife, and she is lovely too. But – and it’s a big but, I can’t deny it – she is a Tottenham supporter and was in fact watching their game with West Ham in the bleak Badlands of North London while were in salubrious SW6. It just so happened that as I saw Matt walking over to see me at about five minutes to three, “The Liquidator” was playing and, with perfect timing, Matt arrived just as we both belted out “We Hate Tott’num.”

We cracked some smiles, and I wondered, worryingly, if that just might be the highlight of the day.

As the teams took to the field, I took to my seat, and the Icelandic couple took their seats right in front of me.

The game began, with us attacking The Shed.

Within the first minute of play, Brentford registered a shot on target via Kevin Schade, but Robert Sanchez was able to save.

On ten minutes, a lovely swivel from Enzo in a central position and he surged on and released a ball for Joao Pedron to use. He ran into the box but couldn’t seem to get the ball out of his feet. He fell to the floor after contact with a Brentford defender but there was no penalty.

On nineteen minutes, a nice break, initiated by a long ball from Sanchez to Pedro Neto on the right. He set up Cole Palmer, but his shot was sent curling over.

Just after, Brentford advanced and Thiago set up Schade, who then looked free and about to cause problems. Surprisingly, he returned the ball square to Thiago. Tosin deflected the ball towards the goal, but Sanchez reacted well to block. Reece James then booted the ball clear.

“Save of the season, that” uttered Clive.

At this point in the game, I was warmed by a few pieces of decent attacking play from us and optimistically hoped that the Rosenior era would blossom. But I then thought again and wondered if my standards had dropped and I was being too kind to the fare that was being played out in front of me.

On twenty-six minutes, Chelsea were trying to win the ball on the edge of the Brentford box, and Enzo was the main protagonist. Luckily a clearance from a defender conveniently rebounded off him into the path of Joao Pedro. His quick shot was blasted high past the Brentford ‘keeper Caiomhin Kelleher.

Get in.

We were up and celebrating, but then VAR took control of proceedings. After the usual wait – it’s always too long – the goal stood.

The home crowd roared and “Chelsea Dagger” was aired. I turned to anyone that might be listening and shouted, “I’m not cheering a VAR goal and I am not singing along to this shit.”

I believe the phrase that describes this is “shouting into the abyss.”

I do a lot of that at football.

The play continued and Brentford enjoyed a very good spell. On thirty-five minutes, a header from a corner whistled past the post. Just after, a long ball out to their left was turned into the box, and after a clever flick-on, the ball fell to Mikkel Damsgaard but his volley shaved the far post. Then, an effort from Damsgaard was saved by Sanchez.

Accompanying all these Brentford near misses were a variety of shrieks and yells from the female Icelandic visitor in front, and it reminded me of some of Bjork’s best efforts.

She was certainly living every second of her visit.

On forty-three minutes, a strong tackle from Enzo instigated a break down our right and Pedro Neto raced on before slotting a brilliant low ball across the six-yard box. We saw the blonde mop of Garnacho arrive, level with a defender, but his effort flew wide.

Garnacho pulled his Edvard Munch face and we screamed our displeasure.

Fackinell, and whatever that is in Icelandic.

It had been deathly quiet all game, and it drains the life out of me, it really does. Every season it gets worse. Before we know it, we will be able to hear the reversing beepers of London buses in Oxford Street and the shuffle of papers inside the British Museum during games at Stamford Bridge.

Brentford were lively on the break, and we needed to thank Moises Caicedo to block an effort from Yehor Yarmolik just before half-time.

The second half began with a shot that was blasted high and wide by Pedro Neto. Soon after, another Brentford break set up that man Schade and he raced on to a ball, before steadying himself to shoot. He attempted to curl an effort towards the far post but miraculously Sanchez stuck out his left leg and the ball went wide.

Superb stuff.

On fifty-seven minutes, a double substitution.

Wesley Fofana for Tosin.

Andrey Santos for Garnacho.

Brentford then dominated the game and we struggled to compete. Brentford created some half-chances. We did not.

On sixty-six minutes, my frustration rose as we were awarded a free-kick wide right and chose to work the ball inside not once but on three separate occasions, and this just about summed it all up. Each time the ball went back to a central defender. This systematic “playing by numbers” is ruining my love of the game.

Fackinell.

On seventy-two minutes, Thiago’s towering header went wide.

After seventy-four minutes, Liam Delap took over from Joao Pedro.

Just after, Palmer put Nathan Collins under pressure, and the defender was forced into playing the ball to his ‘keeper. Kelleher’s touch was poor, and the substitute Delap tried to reach the ball. Kelleher bundled him over.

I saw the referee bring the whistle to his mouth, then point to the spot and I roared.

Phew.

All eyes on Palmer.

Snap.

A cool finish.

Get in.

But no usual celebration.

Chelsea 2 Brentford 0.

At last the Matthew Harding sang.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

Two late substitutions for Rosenior.

Josh Acheampong for James.

Jorrel Hato for Enzo.

I rated Enzo as our best performer on this day in SW6. He impressed me with both his defensive and offensive qualities and was the engine that kept the gears turning. I liked Trevoh Chalobah in this game too; strong tackles, good headers away, a decent performance. Robert Sanchez, of course, made a couple of fantastic stops. More power to him.

The game dwindled on, and many left before the end.

At the final whistle, relief for the points if not for the overall performance. This had undoubtedly been a lucky win, this one. Brentford deserved at least a point.

My takeaway from the game?

A saveloy and chips from “The Anchor on Lillee Road”, just the job on a long cold walk back to the car.

Tales From Managers, Old And New

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 14 January 2026.

As we prepared for Liam Rosenior’s first home game as manager of Chelsea Football Club, I was reminded of another League Cup semi-final against Arsenal almost twenty-eight years ago.

This one took place at Stamford Bridge too. And it was also the first home game for another new manager, Gianluca Vialli.

After a 0-2 loss in the league at Highbury on 8 February 1998, chairman Ken Bates dispensed with manager Ruud Gullit – despite the Dutchman securing our first silverware in twenty-six years the preceding May – and installed the Vialli as player-manager on 12 February. As fate would have it, Vialli’s first game in charge of his old teammates was against Arsenal on 18 February in a League Cup second leg after we lost the first game at Highbury 1-2.

Before the game, in the dressing room, Vialli arranged for the players to toast each other with glasses of champagne, and on a very memorable night goals from Mark Hughes, Roberto di Matteo and Dan Petrescu gave us a wild 3-1 win and a 4-3 triumph on aggregate. It was a bloody fantastic night.

I was confident that there would be no champagne in 2026; isotonic sports drinks were more likely.

We met Arsenal in the 2017/18 semi-finals too; a dull 0-0 at Chelsea was followed by a meek 1-2 loss at Arsenal.

What would happen in 2026? I, for one, was not too confident.

This was a standard midweek trip to Stamford Bridge for me. After I dropped my two fellow travellers off at “The Eight Bells”, I visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. The waitress asked me if I had any allergies, and I wondered if I should have replied :

“Yeah, I fucking hate Tottenham.”

A bowl of French onion soup and a peperoni pizza later, I was on my way to West Brompton and then Putney Bridge.

During the day, I had messaged my friend Mark – a Chelsea supporter from nearby Westbury who I first met on the day we beat Leeds United 5-0 back in 1984 – and who is now the chairman of Westbury United. While Chelsea would be playing Arsenal, the re-arranged Frome Town vs. Westbury United game would be taking place over one-hundred miles to the west. I wished him “all the best for tonight” but was surprised to hear that he would be at Stamford Bridge instead.

As I walked into the pub, Mark was with Parky and PD, who he has known since around 1979, and I sat myself down for a good old chat about Chelsea and the non-league scene on the Somerset and Wiltshire border. It is an odd quirk that I am good friends with both clubs’ chairmen; even more that they are both Chelsea.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.20pm, and I was suffering with a recently acquired sore throat. There would be no singing at all for me on this night in SW6.

We had heard that Arsenal had the whole Shed End, but I soon spotted that there was a “no-go” area towards the left-hand side of the stand. This immediately confused me. I then presumed that Arsenal had not been given the rumoured 6,000, more like 4,500, and that Chelsea fans – 1,500 of us – were sat in the area usual reserved for away fans. It seemed odd and looked even odder.

We have had some strange sights over the years at Stamford Bridge since the renovations began in 1993. We have had away fans positioned in the East Upper. We have had away fans in the East Lower. We have had away fans in the uncovered West Stand. We have even had away fans in the Matthew Harding Lower. And of course, away fans in the Shed End. But this was the first time I could ever remember Chelsea fans in the away section of The Shed.

As I waited for the game to begin, I spotted a few visitors from The Shed who were unable to take up their usual seats due to the Arsenal invasion and were now sat in the Matthew Harding Upper. I spotted Long Tall Pete, then Cliff, then Martin from Glocester. Again, it was odd seeing unfamiliar faces in this section. Parky and Salisbury Steve, two other Shedenders, were in the tier below.

The team that Rosenior had picked surprised us.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Neto

Guiu

Several big names were out; we presumed injured.

On the Monday, we had sadly learned that former player and manager Eddie McCreadie had passed away at the age of eighty-five. Eddie stopped playing for Chelsea just before I began going to games, but he was a key member of the 1970 and 1971 cup winning teams in Manchester and Athens. I remembered him more as an intelligent manager, galvanising a team of mainly youngsters to gain promotion in 1977 after the desolation of relegation in 1975. That he failed to agree on a deal at Stamford Bridge in the summer of 1977 is always seen as a massive failure by the club at the time. In an era when Chelsea did not sign a single new player in 1975, 1976 and 1977 – are you listening, Clearlake? – the eventual success of McCreadie’s youngsters were testament to his prowess in nurturing young talent.

I always remember hearing the story of how he went on a mazy eighty-yard dribble in the home leg of the League Cup Final in 1965 and scoring past Gordon Banks in the Leicester City goal. The game had been tied at 2-2 after Chelsea went 1-0 up, then 2-1 up but the away team equalized on both occasions. This wondergoal from McCreadie won the game, and ultimately the tie, since the return leg finished 0-0.

But he will always be remembered for 1970, above all.

I absolutely think that the 1970 FA Cup winners are still regarded as the most-loved of all our teams, despite the glories of the past twenty-five years.

  1. Peter Bonetti
  2. Ron Harris
  3. Eddie McCreadie
  4. John Hollins
  5. John Dempsey
  6. David Webb
  7. Tommy Baldwin
  8. Charlie Cooke
  9. Peter Osgood
  10. Ian Hutchinson
  11. Peter Houseman

Sadly, just three of this cherished team remain with us; Ron Harris, David Webb, Charlie Cooke.

Before the game, there was a respectful moment of applause in memory of Eddie McCreadie.

REST IN PEACE

Kepa was booed as his name was announced and I shook my head. He was, after all, part of the team that saw us embarrass his current team 5-1 in Baku. I am sure others rolled their eyes when they heard that.

Soon into the game, we had already witnessed a long throw into the mixer from Declan Rice from down below us, and soon after I snapped as the same player dropped a corner into the six-yard box.

The action seemed to go into slow-motion. I saw Sanchez rise, I saw Sanchez flap at air, I saw the ball drop onto the head of Ben White, I saw the ball squeeze in past an Arsenal player on the line.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

Maybe there had been champagne pre-match, and Sanchez had drunk more than his share.

I slumped into my seat, with the back of my head nestling in the palms of my hands, crestfallen and silent. I don’t think I moved for the best part of a minute. The Arsenal players – I call them “the robots”, and they don’t deserve capital letters – swarmed together and very soon the Arsenal lot in The Shed began singing.

“Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again, set piece again.

Set piece again, ole ole.”

Was this tiresome chant a replacement of the equally shite “1-0 to the Arsenal”?

No, because that was soon aired too.

Bloody hell.

Ten minutes had passed, we were 1-0 down to the Woolwich Wanderers, they had scored via a set piece, and we had already been treated to pieces of kamikaze distribution from Sanchez.

“This could be a long night, this.”

However, Enzo rattled a powerful drive at Kepa, and we all hoped for more.

A strong run from Viktor Gyokeres into the box, trading paces with Trevoh Chalobah, allowed him to wriggle free and create space but his shot was deflected away for a corner. There was something in that old-fashioned contest that somehow warmed me; two players in a good-old duel, a real blast from the past.

I noticed that every seat in the house was occupied, and where there are usually empty seats in most areas, this night Stamford Bridge looked crammed. I have to say that the £60 ticket for this game shocked a lot of us; until recently the club has charged significantly less for League Cup games, even semis. We wondered how much the away ticket would cost. It was odd that the away game was not yet on sale; the first instance I could ever remember of this happening. On the way up, we wondered what the likelihood of purchasing a second-leg ticket would be if we were trailing 0-3 from this game.

The consensus was this :

“3-0 down. £60 a pop. Won’t get home until 2.30am. Let someone else have our tickets.”

Estevao looked lively as we tried to get back into the game. The best move of our match came on twenty-seven minutes as Enzo set up Joao Pedro but his low cross bobbled across the six-yard box but there was nobody close in to finish.

Leandro Trossard weaved his way into the box down below us, but his shot was blocked.

At the other end, Enzo played in Estevao who forced a fine save from Kepa at his near post.

Arsenal were plainly a well-oiled machine with players who knew how their system worked. Chelsea kept battling away, but without a great deal of penetration.

On thirty-nine minutes, William Saliba dropped a shot on the roof of Sanchez’ net.

Two bookings followed for Estevao and Cucurella, and the first half ended.

At half-time, no changes from Rosenior, and I was quietly expecting another half of decent possession but no final product. Marc Guiu had not had a sniff.

During the break, I was relieved to hear that Sam Heal had given Frome Town a 1-0 lead against Westbury. A healthy gate of 814 would soon be announced

The second half began, and after just four minutes, the action switched to the West Stand touchline. Pedro Neto lost the ball to Bukayo Saka, Cucurella fell and tried to recover, and raced back trying to track Saka, but the ball was played outside to the free man White, racing on the overlap, nobody tracking him. I know that Neto usually does this; not on this occasion. The ball was fired in low, and from over one hundred yards away, it was not clear to me how it had evaded Sanchez. Gyokeres had the simplest task.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 2.

The visitors began singing about Wembley.

Eight minutes into the second period, the new manager made two substitutions.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Acheampong, while Alejandro Garnacho replaced Guiu.

We approached the hour mark, and we seemed to be more direct, more cohesive.

On fifty-seven minutes, a poor Arsenal clearance failed to clear their half. It annoyed me that the bloke behind me was quick to berate Enzo, but as he spoke his words of disgust, Enzo chased down the ball from one player and then continued to fight for the ball, not once but twice. The ball broke to Joao Pedro who set up Neto on the right. The ball was crossed to the far post, where Garnacho waited. The ball bounced, he chested it down, then lashed it in from an angle. I was impressed with this finish.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 2.

Game on.

Garnacho soon realised it was no time to sit his arse on an advertising board and raced back towards his own goal.

Arsenal had been singing along constantly all game, but it was now our turn. Stamford Bridge was engulfed in a deluge of vibrant noise.

Heart-warming stuff.

We created a few half-chances, with Estevao and Garnacho causing problems.

Sadly, on seventy minutes, Saka initiated a move on the right, and the ball was neatly played between Mikel Merino and Gyokeres. Fine footwork from Martin Zubimendi inside our box allowed him to create space and fire home, high into the net.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 3.

The Gooners went into orbit.

On seventy-five minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

I wasn’t particularly confident about anything.

“It’s going to be a long quarter of an hour.”

An Estevao shot was blocked. At the other end, Sanchez denied Merino with a stunning piece of goalkeeping, flinging out a leg, and stopping a goal-bound shot with his boot.

From the corner, Gabriel headed a cross down and up and over the bar.

Fackinell.

On eighty-one minutes, our last two changes.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Cucurella.

Shim Mheuka for Joao Pedro.

…also Kai Havertz made an appearance, and Porto 2021 seemed such a long time ago.

Estevao enjoyed a fantastic run down the right, forcing a corner. Neto delivered the ball in, and it was flicked on towards Garnacho, again at the back stick. An instinctive finish, but well controlled, and we were overjoyed to see the net ripple.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 3.

Garnacho again raced back to his half; no time for celebration fripperies.

The last ten minutes of the game were played out, and half-chances came and went. PD set off early to begin the slow walk to the car. No more goals ensued, and as I joined the masses attempting to vacate The Sleepy Hollow, tempers were raging among a few players down on the pitch.

Out into the night, I muttered to myself:

“Now I’ll have to fork out for a ticket for the bloody second-leg.”

I met up with the chaps. We were pragmatic. We hadn’t played brilliantly but we never gave up.

“The tie is still alive.”

After a predictable detour down the A4 from Hungerford to Melksham, I eventually reached home at around 1.45am.

At least Frome won.

Tales From The Addicks And The Addicts

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Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night. 

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway. 

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc. 

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley. 

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.” 

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu 

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs. 

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup

Tales From Deepest SW6

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 7 January 2026.

This match at Craven Cottage would be the first of six consecutive games in London, and for this I was truly thankful. There have been some long hauls over the past month or so, including Leeds, Newcastle and Manchester, and I was looking forward to this spell in the capital.

These games are coming quickly in the month of January, and the club will play a total of nine matches this month.

On the Monday after the game at the Etihad, the club interviewed Liam Rosenior, and on the Tuesday morning it was announced that the former Fulham player who was in charge at our sister club Strasbourg would be unsurprisingly joining us. The length of the contract, of six years, baffled me, but much of modern football leaves me baffled so I tried not to dwell too much on it.

Liam Rosenior, then.

I remembered him from his time at Fulham, but struggled with his spells at other clubs. My first ever game at Craven Cottage with Chelsea was in the 2004/5 season and I quickly checked to see if our new manager was playing on that day over twenty-one years ago. In fact, he was a non-playing substitute. As an aside, I really enjoyed that match, with Arjen Robben on fire, and we won it 4-1. I chuckled when I realised that I recognised virtually all the Fulham team that day. The surnames were listed and I quickly barked out their first names.

Mark Crossley

Moritz Volz

Zat Knight

Zesh Rehman

Carlos Bocanegra

Steed Malbranque

Mark Pembridge

Papa Bouba Diop

Luis Boa Morte

Tomas Radzinski

Andrew Cole

The only two I struggled naming were Carlos Bocanegra and Andrew Cole; I thought it was Andy. Of course, these days I would bloody struggle to name many of the Fulham team’s first names. Sigh.

Anyway, enough of this shite.

Welcome to Chelsea Football Club, Liam Rosenior.

Best wishes for a long and successful career on the Fulham Road.

…stop sniggering at the back.

Incidentally, I used to feel haunted every time that I heard the Rosenior name, including when Liam first came to my attention when he played for the local Bristol City team in 2002. You see, dear reader, his father Leroy played – and scored – against us in a 1-4 defeat at Upton Park on a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. That defeat effectively consigned us to a play-off position in a fight to avoid relegation that season. And we all know how that worked out.

In twenty years’, time, I hope that the name Rosenior doesn’t haunt me further.

I worked an early shift and collected PD and Parky at 2pm. I updated the lads on Frome Town’s fine win at Bishops Cleeve the previous night. I fuelled up at Reading Services, and enjoyed a good run in. I dropped them off at “The Eight Bells” at just before 4.30pm.

After parking up at 5pm on Gowan Avenue, I trotted the fifteen minutes down the Fulham High Street to meet up with the lads. A group of five slow-moving Fulham fans were in my way and I sped past them. I hoped it was a metaphor for the evening’s match. I peered into “The Golden Lion” with its “Home Fans Only” sign, then crossed the great divide as I passed “The Kings Arms” and “The Temperance” – away fans – and approached “The Eight Bells” with its “Only Away Fans” sign.

At 5.15pm, I was in, and shot round to join up with PD, LP, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Texas Aleksey. I stayed about an hour, and it was lovely to see so many other Chelsea faces appear in our local. It seemed like we were having a little party in the front room of our house and word had got out. It was splendid.

I found it funny that Scott, Gerry, Martin and I were last together in a bar outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx in July, and here were all were again in a pub near Craven Cottage in South Fulham in January.

Things, sadly, would take a turn for the worst.

My friend Chris in North Carolina – formerly of Windsor – messaged me at 5.45pm to inform me that a mutual friend, Mick Collins, had passed away after heart surgery the previous night. I was shocked and stunned. I first met Mick, who retired a few years ago, in Chicago in 2006 for our game against the MLS All-Stars, and our paths would cross on many occasions, in the US and in England. He was a lovely man and will be sorely missed.

RIP Mick Collins.

This was the last of Texas Aleksey’s run of games on his trip and this would be his inaugural visit to Craven Cottage. We all left the pub within a few minutes of each other, but while Jimmy walked ahead with PD and LP, I wandered through the park with Aleksey. It was a bitterly cold night alongside the River Thames.

I took a few photos outside the familiar red brick frontage on Stevenage Road.

I was in at 7.15pm.

Such is the benign nature of Fulham’s support, that it is only at Craven Cottage where home and away fans can walk side-by-side once through the turnstiles and inside the concourse behind the stand.

Very Fulhamish.

However, I wasn’t impressed with my view; although I am an away season ticket holder, I was right down by the corner flag alongside the lower tier of the Riverside Stand.

This little area is full of tourists – It’s easy to tell – and I wondered which ones I would become fixated upon as they looked across at the travelling support, open-mouthed, at the volume and humour of our support. It’s a game I always play at Craven Cottage if I am towards that stand.

Of course, it was the Tyrique George chant that got us all energised last season, and I wondered if the youngster might be included in the squad to act as a catalyst for noise if no other reason.

Well, no. He wasn’t even on the bench.

With Liam Rosenoir watching in the stands, Calum McFarlane took charge for his second game and chose this team :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto

Trevoh Chalobah

Tosin Adaradioyo

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto

Enzo Fernandez

Cole Palmer

Liam Delap

So, Enzo in the hole and Cole out wide. I suspected some abuse from the home fans for Tosin.

Was it just me, or did others feel like we would be treading water in this game as we waited for the new man to take over? I expected a hard game against Fulham and predicted a tight 1-1 draw.

Pre-match, some flames flew up into the sky in front of the Riverside Stand while the PA played what sounded like an ACDC song. What could be further from Fulham than ACDC? I think a song by the Brotherhood of Man would have been more fitting. The players marched across the pitch from the cottage, and yet more flames and fireworks zipped up into the cold black sky. The bloke on the PA was even more “shouty” than our dickhead at Stamford Bridge.

Fackinell.

Fulham play in an all-white kit these days, so it was a nice-and-simple whites vs. blues battle on this evening in deepest SW6. The home team attacked us in the Putney End in the first half, and they engineered a shot on goal in the very first minute when Harry Wilson shot low at goal, but Robert Sanchez saved easily.

Just after, the first of many Roman Abramovich chants got going in the away section of the stadium.

Then, the usual chants for players who were not on the pitch, what an odd custom.

I barked out “It’s Salomon.”

In the first fifteen minutes, we dominated possession but with no real effort on goal.

Then, as we neared the twenty-minute mark, two corners on our left in front of the Hammersmith End from Enzo caused a few problems for Bernd Leno. After the ‘keeper clawed at the ball to save it from reaching Liam Delap, another corner swung in and he watched as an Andrey Santos header hit the bar. Another corner was not so problematic and went behind for a goal-kick. With Chelsea having camped out in the Fulham box for a few minutes, Leno spotted a one-on-one and smashed a long ball forward towards Wilson. He was in a simple battle, a running duel, with Cucurella who had been his usual combative self in the opening quarter of the match. To our horror, Cucurella pulled at an arm and Wilson went down.

It was on the edge of the box, and Cucurella was the last man. We were rather unsighted, but the referee gave a straight red. Phone messages arrived to say the same thing.

“Stupid defending. Definite red.”

Thankfully, a VAR check denied Fulham a penalty. Wilson only hit the wall with the free kick.

Calum McFarlane replaced Santos with Jorrel Hato, who slotted into left-back.

Fulham then penned us in for the next period of the game. They dominated possession but didn’t really hurt us.

On thirty-five minutes, more Roman Abramovich chants, quickly followed by one demanding that Eghbali went forth and multiplied.

The mood was getting fractious in the Putney End.

On forty minutes, a decent break involving the hard-working Delap and Enzo, but a tepid shot from Palmer at Leno.

The game deteriorated and I pondered how truly awful the Fulham badge truly is. It sits there atop the gable of the old Leitch stand, now the Johnny Haynes Stand – an exact replica of our old East Stand – and I just shook my head. It looks like it was designed by an eight-year-old in a school detention.

A Fulham effort from Emil Smith-Rowe flew over the bar.

Six minutes of injury time were signalled.

Fulham put the ball in our net via Wilson, but Raul Jiminez looked offside to everyone around us. The Fulham fans roared as the players raced away, and after what seemed like ninety seconds, a VAR sign was flashed up on the screens. Why it took so long I will never know. It seemed to an increasingly cynical me that they waited for the Fulham players to finish celebrating – “great TV, let’s not spoil that” – before VAR was signalled.

All part of the modern football experience, all bloody shite.

Thankfully, VAR ruled offside.

Phew.

Being so low down – the bottom fifteen rows have a shallow rake – I couldn’t get many decent photos at all. As Chelsea attacked us in the second half, I hoped for an improvement.

In the first minute of the second period, a break and Pedro Neto fired over. Just after, a daisy-cutter from Wilson was deflected wide of Sanchez’ goal for a corner. Enzo sent in a corner, but Hato’s header was glanced over.

I found myself momentarily checking some scores – “United losing, Tottenham losing” – and looked up to see a Jiminez leap, alone, that resulted in his header nestling into the corner of the goal.

Fackinell.

Fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

I liked the way that our support responded with the loudest chant of the night from us.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The world has ever seen.”

Well, in New Jersey in July maybe, perhaps not in Fulham in January.

A Fulham shot whipped past Sanchez’ left post. Many home fans presumed it was in. Thankfully, the side netting rippled from the outside only.

On the hour, more Roman Abramovich chants.

And then the other one.

“Fcuk off Eghbali, fuck off Eghbali.”

A pass from deep from Tosin, and Palmer intelligently stepped over it and allowed it to run to Delap who cantered away at the Fulham goal. The young striker went for placement and not power, but Leno got an arm to it and a covering defender headed away.

I want to see more early balls to Delap for him to run onto; surely it is his strength?

Then, the chant of the night, perhaps of the season, or at least the recent weeks.

Zeitgeist at Fulham.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.

They don’t care about us.

All we care about is Chelsea FC.”

On sixty-five, Reece James replaced Enzo who, apart from those flighted corners, had done little.

Then another chant aimed at Clearlake but one man in particular.

“You’re not wanted here.

You’re not wanted here.

Fcuk off Eghbali.

You’re not wanted here.”

A low shot from Moises Caicedo, who himself had been unusually quiet thus far.

From right in front of me, no more than twenty feet away, Neto – minus ‘tache these days – floated in a near-post header. Under pressure from the leaping Gusto, Antonee Robinson could only flick the ball on, and it smacked against the far post. I could not see a jot, but I saw the reactions to a Delap goal.

GET IN YOU FCUKER.

I tried to take some worthwhile photos of the players celebrating but only really succeeded in snapping us fans.

We’re the important ones anyway, right?

It was 1-1, my prediction on the night.

On seventy-five minutes, Josh Acheampong for Gusto and Joao Pedro for Palmer. Unfortunately, Cole had struggled and didn’t look his old self. He seemed frustrated too, which is clearly not a good sign.

Of the two teams, it was Fulham who then upped their challenge, and we had to resort to some desperate defending, hacking away balls, blocking shots and throwing bodies at crosses. There was one absolutely magnificent “star fish” jump from Sanchez that foiled an effort from close in.

“There’s only one Robert Sanchez.

One Robert Sanchez.

He used to be shite.

But now he’s alright.

Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

This was tense stuff now.

On eighty-one minutes, Sanchez dropped quickly to save well from Smith-Rowe but the rebound fell nicely for Wilson, who had been a threat all night, and he shot low past Sanchez.

I screamed “OH NO.”

Bollocks.

Interestingly, I looked over to my left to the tourist section and only a very small proportion of the one hundred or so fans closest to me were up and celebrating.

Were many of them Chelsea supporters?

Maybe, but perhaps unlikely.

I suspect most just happened to be in London and fancied a game of football to add to their list of boxes to tick. A Premier League game these days sits right alongside a Harry Potter studio tour, a coach trip to Stonehenge, a visit to Harrods and a plate of fish and chips.

£150 or more later, they sat in stoney silence and perhaps wondered what all the fuss was about.

Nine minutes of normal time and four minutes of injury time did not result in any worthwhile Chelsea effort on the Fulham goal.

This ended as a 1-2 loss.

It was Fulham’s third win against us in the past eight encounters after being winless in the previous twenty-one games.

For a club that has never won a major honour in one hundred-and-forty-seven years, this might be the nearest they come to anything worthwhile.

Bless’em.

As I made my way up the steps at the Putney End, and out into the concourse, the PA system played “Good Times” by Chic and I mouthed an obscenity.

One Chelsea lad barked “the Fulham lot are buzzing. One of them has cracked open a cheeseboard” and I had to smile.

I raced off to collect my car from Gowan Avenue and soon picked up my two mates on Findlay Road. We were soon on our way. I reached home at 12.45pm, a relatively early finish compared to recent trips.

It was a weak performance and nobody except Sanchez really shone. The reason for this malaise? Who bloody knows? We are, as ever, a confusing club and a confused club, and I can churn out the usual platitudes about hoping that the new manager can sort everything out, but he is untested at this level and will find himself under huge pressure if things do not go as Clearlake wish.

I wish him well, but…

Our next match is against Charlton Athletic in the FA Cup Third Round on Saturday, one of the great days in the football calendar. It will be my first visit to The Valley since the opening day of 2002/3.

I’ll see some of you there.

HOME AND AWAY

DEEPEST SW6

GOOD TIMES

Tales From Some Kind Of Madness

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2026.

So much to write, so little time. Let’s get going.

I was just finishing off the blog of the Bournemouth game when I heard that Enzo Maresca was to leave Chelsea Football Club.

It came as no shock to me.

In fact, I summed it all up to a few friends by saying that I was not surprised that I was not surprised.

Over the years, with increasing regularity over the last fifteen years, Chelsea managers do not last too long; even ridiculously successful ones such as Jose Mourinho, Carlo Ancelotti and Antonio Conte.

My thoughts about Maresca?

I had hardly heard of him when it was rumoured that we were heavily linked to him. I was “Maresca neutral” for most of his spell at Chelsea. These pages have hardly been a litany of praise, but there were moments when he seemed to be steering us in the correct position. I do remember one moment quite clearly though; over in New Jersey on that Sunday in July, with us holding a sparking new trophy, and with Maresca bathing in the glory, I did look at the smiles on the manager’s face and think to myself –

“I suppose I am going to have to start liking you now.”

But I was never a massive fan, though nor was I a heavy critic.

My relationship with the man was all rather tepid. I found it odd that – for an Italian – he seemed quite dull.

As the weekend approached, I had to get my head around the fact that there would be no Guardiola and Maresca battle at the Etihad Stadium on the Sunday. To say that I was not relishing the trip would be a fair summation.

But first, Frome Town were to play local rivals Westbury United on the Saturday. This game had certainly caught the imagination of the local populace. The two towns are a mere eight miles apart and the projected gated was between 1,000 and 1,500, a fantastic figure for our level. For me, the real bonus was that my friend Aleksey – from Houston in Texas – would be driving down from London and the dramas of SW6 to stay two nights in Frome to catch the game before then heading north to Manchester.

I met up with Aleksey along with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – we met in 1977, our first game together came in 1983 – at “The George Hotel” on the Friday night. We then visited “The Sun “ and “The Blue Boar” and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We spoke of Maresca – a little – and of Chelsea – a little more – and Frome Town – a lot more – and planned the details of the weekend. Alas, Glenn was unable to see the Frome game but would be joining us for the northern attraction later that weekend.

Alex and I were to meet at midday on the Saturday, and I awoke to see a sunny day but with cold temperatures. I was slightly concerned that there would be a pitch inspection at 11.15am.

At 11.45am, I was mortified to see that the game had been postponed due to one section of the pitch, under the shadow of a tall stand (and ironically with solar panels on its roof), that was rock hard.

What a horrible shame. I was desolate. And I had to conjure up a “Plan B” for the day. I collected Aleksey, who was very pragmatic about things, and soon decided to take advantage of the stunning winter sun by going on what I called “The No Bloody Frome Town Game Pub Crawl.”

Over five hours we hit five pubs in the surrounding area of the town.

“The George” at Norton St. Phillip, a pub which dates from 1390.

“The Bell” at Buckland Dinham, a village where my maternal grandmother lived.

“The George” in Nunney, a village close to my home.

“The White Hart” in Trudoxhill, a village where I often enjoy a Sunday roast.

“The Woolpack” in Beckington, a village where The Smiths recorded their last album in 1987.

We finished it all off with a spicy curry.

Sunday morning arrived, and I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am, then Parky in Holt? Where was Aleksey? He was already en route to Manchester, keen to drop his hire-car off and book in at his hotel before meeting us at 2pm at a pre-planned pub, his eighth of the weekend.

We stopped at Strensham for a drink and snacks and I decided to post this on “Facebook.”

“I can safely say that of the 1,525 or so Chelsea games I have seen so far, I have never felt less excited than I do today.

I guess it’s some kind of madness that propels me to games like this.”

Was I being over-dramatic?

No.

My reasons were many.

The Etihad is my least favourite away venue. We rarely get anything from our visits. The City fans, who I didn’t use to mind, have become pains, especially those who stand in the area next to the away supporters, and I always seem to be close to them.

City are such a well-oiled team, and after us losing our manager a few days before the game, I was full of nightmarish thoughts about a proper drubbing.

One name; Erling Haaland.

Fackinell.

The kick-off time on this winter’s Sunday was not 4pm, not 4.30pm, not 5pm, but bloody 5.30pm. What a joke. If and when I eventually decide to leave this level of football and take my support elsewhere, I will look back on all of the myriad reasons that combined to make me take the ultimate decision, and “Sunday 5.30pm kick offs up north” will be a major building block towards it.

There was snow forecast during the day. My mate Tommie in North Wales informed me that snow had fallen over night and more was on its way. Additionally, there were rumours of quote-unquote “severe snowstorms” to hit the south-west in the evening.

So, there would be a risk of my projected finish time of 1am being slid – pardon the pun – back a few hours.

I had to get to work the next day for 9am, so I would be sleep-deficient, and my car was in for a service too, so God help us if the snowy roads meant that I would not be able to cover the last few miles along country roads.

And let me re-emphasise; we had just lost our manager.

Ugh.

Is it any wonder I felt so little excitement?

There was snow on the peaks of the Malvern Hills to our west, and as we neared Birmingham, we drove through a little light dusting of snow.

At 2pm, dead on target, I reached “The Kilton Inn”, an old favourite, near Tatton Park, just a few miles from the M6. This pub acted as a base camp for many of our trips to Manchester and the north-west from around 2004 to 2009, and it is, memorably, where Glenn and I, along with Frank – RIP – stopped for a pre-match meal on the way to Bolton in April 2005. On that particular day (one day, I will tell the story in full ) I had popped into Frome to buy a copy of the Comic Relief single “Is This The Way To Amarillo” to take to Bolton.

Why?

Peter Kay was heavily involved, and we were all massive fans of “Phoenix Nights” that was based in Bolton. I surmised that should we win the league that day, it would be the perfect musical accompaniment. Of course we won, what a magical day, and Glenn played it non-stop on the magnificent drive home.

“Claude Makelele waits for me…”

Back to 2026. Glenn and I wolfed down a roast beef special and we stayed until 3.30pm. Just before we left, I asked Aleksey to take a photo of us twenty-one years on, in roughly the same spot.

Ah, the passage of time.

And yes, that’s the CD in my hand.

There were now five in my car, and I drove through Manchester – very close to the location of City’s old stadium in Moss Side – and I dropped PD, Glenn and Parky outside the away end at around 4.15pm. I drove down the Ashton New Road with Aleksey, parking up at my usual place. Outside, the weather was bitter. The cold wind stung my skin. Good God, this could be an horrific day.

I took a few photos of the outside, including a new Sergio Aguero statue, then through the surprisingly easy security checks, and in.

We were all spilt up. Aleksey and Glenn were in the lower level, while Parky came down from his allotted seat in row 30 to join me in row 5 of the upper level, thankfully ten seats away from the locals.

The stadium filled slowly as the night fell.

Thankfully, I was warmer in the stadium than outside it.

A glance at the team that interim coach Calum McFarlane chose revealed no Sanchez, nor Fofana, which worried me.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Chalobah – Badiashile – Gusto

James – Fernandez

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

We eschewed our away kits and chose royal blue. I approved.

The minutes ticked by.

My friend David, a photographer, who I met at Goodison Park a few years back had messaged me to say that he was at the game and was positioned just in front of the away fans. Glenn was in the front row so I wondered if he could get a candid photo of my mate at some stage.

The teams appeared, and I was happy with our support both in terms of number and noise. Despite the nonsensical kick-off time, hardly any seats were left unused.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

Whisper it, but I had made a pact with the footballing Gods on the way up to Manchester that I’d take a 0-3 defeat. PD had predicted “a cricket score” and others, including Nick and Allie behind me had made a pact at 0-3 too. The 0-6 in 2019 still haunts me.

Just before kick-off, the lights dimmed. In a very moving moment, we remembered former players, officials, personalities and fans linked to both clubs who had passed away in 2025.

Well done City.

Marvin Hinton and Joey Jones were among the five Chelsea folk, while Tony Book, Denis Law, Wyn Davies and the boxer Ricky Hatton were among the Manchester City brethren.

I also spotted a Ricky Hatton banner to my right; surely the only banner in a UK stadium that depicts a non-footballing sportsman. He was well loved in Manchester.

The game began.

We started reasonably well and dominated the first five and maybe ten minutes. We nibbled at half-chances inside the City final third but did not create too much. A corner was punched away by Gianluigi Donnarumma.

The game took a while to get going and I was not happy to spot snow falling, but thankfully it did not amount to anything.

On nineteen minutes, the game crackled to life. There was a half-chance for Estevao after a run by Neto, but his shot was blocked by Josko Gvardiol. Just after, an even better chance fell to Phil Foden but he swept his shot wide.

For the rest of the first half, I saw a Chelsea team withdraw further and further back and I made a note on my phone of a litany of City chances.

27 minutes : Haaland leapt, but missed, the ball whipped past the left-hand corner.

31 minutes : Foden headed over.

35 minutes : Malo Gusto kept close to a City player to inhibit his ability to shoot, and it went over.

37 minutes : a superb save from Jorgensen from a deflected shot from Haaland.

38 minutes : we gave the ball away and Haaland smacked a shot against a post.

For us, there was the occasional break but we were finding it hard to support the runners. Enzo impressed me though, making his presence felt, and putting his foot in when needed.

40 minutes : Rayan Cherki blazed wildly over.

Just after, Benoit Badiashile lost possession, and I thought that as the move continued, there was a moment when he could have swiped the ball away, but he paused, allowing Rudolph Reijnders to smack high, and smack home.

Bollocks.

The home fans, quiet in the main, now sang.

“City, Tearing Cockneys Apart, Again.”

I was trying to convince myself throughout the half that we were in it, but the five or six City chances told a different story.

At the break, McFarlane changed things.

Andrey Santos for Estevao.

This enabled Enzo to move forward while Palmer moved wide. The two full-backs switched over.

On forty-seven minutes, with Chelsea attacking us, Neto had a great run but there was a lacklustre finish. Then, just after a very fine move involving Palmer who passed to Enzo. In turn, he adeptly moved the ball to Neto but his shot was slammed over the bar.

This was better.

We enjoyed more of the ball as the half progressed and the support acknowledged it. Regardless of the result, we were playing much better than I had expected. I felt almost embarrassed by my “0-3” deal.

On fifty-seven minutes, we witnessed a “force of nature” run by Haaland into our box but Badiashile – having an up and down game – blocked him superbly.

At a corner down below us, Reece James demanded more support from the travelling three-thousand and we responded.

On sixty-two minutes, two more substitutions.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Jorrel Hato for Acheampong.

We witnessed a couple of suicidal passes across our defence including a horrific mis-kick from the ‘keeper.

A City version of “Amarillo” was aired.

“Show me the way to Istanbul.
Rodri scored in the Champions League Final.
We’re Man City and we’ve won the treble.
The greatest team you’ll ever see.
Shalalala lalalala City!! Shalalala lalalala City!!Shalalala lalalala City!!
The greatest team you’ll ever see.”

Shalalala my arse. We had Bolton.

Delap was an immediate thorn in his former team’s side and after seventy-one minutes there was a fine break, and Delap spun but shot at Donnarumma.

A mention here for the City substitute Abdukodir Khusanov from Uzbekistan. For some reason, I really felt for him on his miserable debut against us last season, so far from home, and was pleased he had recovered emotionally.

City attacked us still, but less often.

The minutes ticked.

A City player broke after Santos erred but Hato robbed the ball with a fantastic sliding tackle.

On seventy-seven minutes, Delap ran alongside a City defender, a good old shoulder-to-shoulder sprint, but the City player just had a little too much speed.

A cross from Gusto on the right narrowly avoided two onrushing players in the box.

The City fans yelled  : “We’re not really here.”

Actually, I was glad I was, for all my pre-match dread.

With ten minutes remaining, as City sang about United to the point of obsession – go figure – I kept thinking…

“If we get one now…fackinell.”

With five minutes to go, I said to John :

“About now, Kevin de Bruyne usually scores a cracker at the other end against us.”

On eighty-eight minutes, a lovely patient move but Palmer side-footed a shot at the City ‘keeper.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

“COME ON CHELS.”

One minute in, Gusto ran into the box but just fell, his legs weak. I felt for him.

Four minutes in, Gusto broke on the right. The away end lurched forward, as one. I snapped – with my pub camera – just as the cross left his foot. It was a bloody magnificent cross, low and right across the six-yard box. I could hardly believe that Enzo was unmarked at the back stick. I snapped again.

He lunged at the ball, mis-hit it, kicked it again, the ‘keeper blocked, but the rebound was tucked home.

EUPHORIA.

EMOTION.

ECSTASY.

I was giddy with excitement.

We live for these moments.

I snapped, again, everything a blur down below me. I saw Enzo jump into the crowd. I envisaged Glenn being swamped by bodies, maybe David too.

Unreal.

We had done it.

Bloody Fucking Nora.

I know I had seen hundreds of Chelsea draws and the club has drawn many more but on ninety-four minutes at the horrible Etihad, this seemed the most important 1-1 ever.

The game ended and I gave random people hugs, saying to a few “thanks for staying” as I noticed quite a few Chelsea fans left at 0-1.

Why?

The players came over to celebrate. Enzo was joyous. Reece propelled Calum to receive the applause he so deserved. What a turnaround. Both of these players, plus Gusto and Chalobah, had been magnificent.

Top marks!

Outside, we met up and we managed a team photo.

We slowly walked back to the car. We dipped into a “Kebabbie” with PD and Glenn munching a ginormous lamb kebab while Parky and I chomped a piping hot pizza.

Life was good.

We hit some snow on the M6, but I kept going.

In the last hour, I played “Music Complete”, New Order’s last album from 2015.

It seemed the perfect way to end this craziest of days.

With song titles including “Restless”, “Plastic”, “People On The High Line” and “The Game” it seemed even more appropriate.

Football Complete.

I reached home at 1am.

Oh, and David captured Glenn with Enzo and I think you will agree it’s a magnificent photo.

See you at Fulham.

David’s Photographs :

https://www.rexfeatures.com/livefeed/2026/01/04/manchester_city_v_chelsea?filter=S&folder=Premier%20League%202025-26

THE KILTON INN

THE ETIHAD

TEAM CHELSEA

APRIL 2005 AND JANUARY 2026

WE ARE CHELSEA