Tales From Sunrise To Sunset

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Everton vs. Chelsea : 17 October 2026.

At last, we were on our travels. After eight trips to London, a new destination in 2026/27 was on the cards.

Everton away.

As an aside, it has taken me over a year to stop saying “Goodison” when I refer to a trip to the blue half of Merseyside’s home, but now it is starting to become easier. However, rather than use the Hill Dickinson Stadium or Bramley Moore Dock, I think I am going to simply use “Everton.”

Less words, more succinct, to the point.

I love away games in October. The season has settled down. Teams have hit a pattern. New players have acclimatised. And there is just something about driving through those autumn colours, especially if on an adventure up north, where everything screams “proper football road trip.” The temperatures are a little cooler, but the air is crisp, and it seems to fit for me. Maybe this is a nod to my childhood when my father took me to Stamford Bridge once in the autumn and once in the spring. For the first three seasons, the pre-Xmas matches were all in October. For many years, I always jump to October when the fixture lists are published; an away day up north in October suits me fine.

I collected Glenn bang on 6am. My usual partners in crime Paul and Parky were missing this one. They really struggled with the walking at Everton last season. In fact, they decided recently that the next away game that they will do will be Coventry City just after Christmas.

The M5 was closed so I was diverted through The Cotswolds on this October morning. As I climbed up towards Nailsworth the sun was starting to rise in the east. Not for the only time on this day out, I wished that I had my SLR camera to take a photograph of this moment. The slight rise of the fields, the first glimpses of yellow and orange, then the darkness of the sky.

The population of Nailsworth is only 5,500 and is the smallest town to ever host a Football League team; from 2017 to 2024. They even reached League One for one campaign in 2022/23.  They now play in the National League, two steps above my local team Frome Town.

On the previous Tuesday, I had travelled the short distance to Chippenham to catch Frome’s game with our local rivals. It was another fantastic match. After a nondescript and goal-less first-half, Frome Town won 2-0 with goals from crowd favourite Jon Davies and zesty wing-back Zak Drew. The crowd was 602. The result solidified our sixth place in the table. While Chelsea would be playing on Merseyside, Frome Town would be at lowly Malvern Town, so I was hoping for a decent result in both matches.

Glenn and I were pragmatic though. We acknowledged that our record at Everton has been very poor of late, and we both said that we would be happy with a draw. I was hoping for three points at Malvern, though.

Our magical mystery tour continued through Stroud, Painswick and Brockworth. We began our descent into the Severn Vale here, and it was another moment when I wished that I could stop in a lay-by to record the scene. The vast expanse of lowland, the River Severn wriggling to the south, the lofty Brecon Beacons away to the west.

At 7.45am, we stopped at Strensham Services for a quick breakfast and to top up the car’s fuel.

We were back on familiar territory now, and I ate up the miles, flying past familiar sights on the road north. Birmingham was bypassed, Walsall’s Bescot Stadium on the right, then signs for Stoke, and I retold the story to Glenn of my rather agitated trip that I took with my parents in September 1984, ahead of three years at college. Onto the flat Cheshire plain, and a comfort break and coffees at Sandbach Services.

Then, the familiar Thelwall Viaduct with sensational views of Winter Hill north of Bolton in the distance. I flew past the huge warehouses that line both sides of the M62 at Burtonwood. Finally, the very familiar approach to Liverpool’s city centre. I spotted the two Liver Birds in the distance between buildings.

I couldn’t resist.

“You dancin’?”

“You askin’?”

“I’m askin’.”

“I’m dancin’.”

Then a quick chorus of “if you’re standing on the corner with a red scarf round your neck.”

While queuing to join the famous Scotland Road, we spotted an Everton blue-liveried scooter, with an Everton-themed number plate, in front of us.

“E70 TFEE.”

And then a blue car, with a similarly themed – EFC – Everton plate.

Glenn just missed taking a photo of these.

Drat.

Like last season, I was lucky enough to be able to park at a mate’s daughter’s apartment at Waterloo Quay, and we arrived here at 10.30am, four-and-a-half hours after leaving Dodge.

We walked ten minutes north on Regent Road and dived into Dock Wall, but unlike in March, my Everton mate Chris wasn’t going to make it. Glenn got the drinks in, and we chatted to our mates Rob, Dave, and Johnny Twelve Teams from California who had arrived in London on the Friday and was hanging around for the Tottenham game. Neil Barnett called by too. It seems impossible to think that he last graced the Stamford Bridge pitch in 2018. We stayed about forty minutes. It wasn’t too busy. It’s the only bar on Regent Road that serves drinks in glass pints, and nobody sussed we were Chelsea, so everything was cushty.

Neil clutched a team sheet of those in the squad, and I watched as he checked names off from the media release from Chelsea.

One change; Jorrel Hato for Pep Chavarria.

Emi

Josh – Maxence – Levi – Jorrel

Hendo – Moises

Pedro – Cole – Morgan

Joao Pedro

I was itching to get inside, and we marched past various entrances carved into the dock wall before reaching the away turnstiles.

There is something very special about these moments; attracted to football like moths to a flame, mirroring generations before us. It’s in our blood. Let’s hope we never tire of it.

There was a slight nip to the air. Just how I like it.

Then, a very brief security check. I must have had an honest face as the steward just waved me through with not even a pat-down. I wonder if I can one day risk bringing an SLR to this new pad.

I was inside at midday. Just right.

I was in section 118, very close to last season’s position. What an awful first visit that turned out to be. The absolute pits.

Glenn and J12 were fifteen rows behind me. I spotted a few other friends. The PA played a selection of Evertonian favourites.

“It’s a grand old team to support, and if you know your history…”

“Everton, we never shone so brightly. Everton, the spirit of the blues.”

Oddly, the voice of Elton John warbling “I guess that’s why they call it the blues.”

We countered all this with a relatively loud “Carefree.”

Then, with five minutes to kick-off, the siren and I braced myself.

“Z Cars.”

It’s bloody fantastic.

Tombsy was stood right behind me, and I know he loved Goodison, and he loves the “Z Cars” at Everton.

We exchanged knowing nods.

There was another Everton song, squeezed in just before a slightly delayed kick off.

“All for one, one for all, Everton’s the team that plays beautiful football.”

Um, “righty-oh.”

The game began, and Brian Moore would have been perplexed that both teams were wearing white shorts.

Our kit looked decent from a distance, but why the club persist with the hated Chelsea Collection Millwall badge is a mystery. We hated it in 1986. In 2026, my feelings have not changed.

The Evertonians – noisy in March – had been silent thus far. Unlike Goodison, with many features to catch the eye, the new stadium is rather bland inside. The steep stands are its major plus point.

Unlike March, we attacked our end in the first half.

It was a very even start to the game. So much so that I did not make a single note on my phone until a shot from Cole Palmer was aimed at goal on fifteen minutes, but Jordan Pickford made an easy save.

There was the usual barrage of songs remembering former players.

It included Jimmy’s and my bête noire.

“He comes from the Ivory Coast, Kalou, Kalou.”

12.46pm / WhatsApp : Chris to Jimmy –

“It’s Salomon!”

12.46pm / Messenger : Jimmy to Chris –

“It’s Salomon!”

Meanwhile, the Evertonians were still so quiet.

On twenty-one minutes, a run down the right in front of the three thousand away supporters from Neto and a Henderson, but his shot was blocked.

Everton then enjoyed a few chances. On twenty-five minutes, Jack Grealish fed Merlin Rohl but his shot was straight at Emi. Unfortunately, our ‘keeper was punished for not releasing the ball. From the resulting corner from Grealish, a close-in header from Thierno Barry but it was aimed straight at our ‘keeper. We should have been a goal down here.

On the half-hour, we were guilty of poor marking and deep cross from former blue Kiernan Dewsbury Hall set up a volley from Grealish but his shot was slammed into the grass and Martinez leapt to tip the ball over the bar.

“CAM ON CHELS.”

Amongst all this, the yellow card count was increasing but if I am honest being so low down and blocking the sun with my eyes – despite wearing sunglasses – I didn’t spot too many of the misdoings. Within the first half alone, there would be five yellows, with Neto, Acheampong and Rogers getting our three.

The docile Everton fans came to life eventually, and with Dewsbury-Hall setting up Grealish on a few occasions, our goal was under threat. Too often, Grealish danced past his marker too easily.

On forty minutes, a corner from Henderson (who hadn’t been booed as much as I had expected by the home fans), swept in a long corner from the far side. It fell to the onrushing Moises Caicedo who sprinted in to meet it on the volley. My poxy little phone camera remarkably caught the ball flying towards the goal. To our amazement, the ball crashed against the bar.

As a few people said after the game; it would have been the best goal any of us would ever see.

Bollocks.

Into the final few minutes of extra time, a long-range shot from the effervescent Neto was tipped over by Pickford. We then enjoyed three late corners, and a header from one of these by Lacroix was hacked away by an Everton defender.

Half-time thoughts? Both teams had chances to go ahead but it had hardly been a classic. I chatted to Huddersfield Mick and Swanage Jase at the break.

The second half began and we attacked the other end, and that entire half of the stadium was almost lost in shade. It looked like viewing would be rather problematic.

However, in the very first minute of the second period, a fine move down our left – me on tiptoes – involving a sweet back-heel from Rogers, set up the overlapping Hato to attack his full back. He reached the goal line, and the ball was played back. I saw two white shirts waiting, and there was a great sense of anticipation as the ball was left by Palmer and fell at the feet of Neto. He took a touch, the anticipation increased, and he smashed the ball low past the forlorn dive from Pickford.

Despite this being Chelsea game number 1,566 for me – and this being goal 2,866 – the excitement that I showed for this goal shocked me; but I was very happy that this goal affected me like this. It proved that I still have the hunger and desire for everything. I just hope it lasts and lasts.

I shook both arms like a lunatic. Think David Pleat at Maine Road in 1983 but without the shit beige jacket and slacks.

We were 1-0 up.

Fackinell.

Just forty-three seconds of the second-half had passed.

Oh, in case anyone is wondering, goal 2,500 was Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang’s opener against Milan at the San Siro in 2022. A good a place as any, I guess.

Buoyed by that goal, we looked a lot more confident and dominated in ways that we didn’t in the first period.

On fifty-five minutes we went close, and a minute later after the best move of the match Palmer shot over with a cheeky lob.

On sixty-three minutes, Rogers shot wide.

With sixty-five minutes played, an in-swinging corner from Dewsbury-Hall – that I captured on film – was aimed at a cluster of players on the penalty spot. Martinez came out to punch but was poleaxed. He lay still, and before no time at all was surrounded by medics. We were all immediately worried. I saw his legs move and was instantly happier. But these were tense times.

I noted that during these minutes, the sun disappeared behind a rare cloud, and I hoped and prayed that this was not an ominous portent of some awful news.

A little gaggle of Evertonians – no more than twenty in a close area – stood up and started remonstrating, and I found this odd. Players had surrounded the ‘keeper, and I wondered what on earth these supporters alone had seen that had irritated them. Whatever it was, surely, they should have respected the moment. During the wait, I must admit that I found it poor that we goaded the home fans with the “Liverpool Slums” ditty while our ‘keeper was laying prostrate and getting medical attention.

After ten minutes, Marinez was lifted slowly onto a stretcher and was taken off the field. We applauded him, as did many home fans, but there was a noticeable barrage of boos from the other end.

Why?

It baffled me then as it baffles me now.

This was a very poor show from those involved.

As Mike Penders entered the pitch for his league debut, the sun reappeared, and I was cheered.

We’re superstitious buggers, aren’t we?

On eighty-one minutes, Palmer shot over.

Two minutes later, a long cross was aimed towards our box, and it looked like it would fall just inside the area. Penders spotted the threat early – “bloody hell, here he goes” – and I have to say that everything worked out. He raced towards the ball, jumped to perfection, and punched the ball all the way down Regent Road.

Bloody fantastic.

Two minutes later, a lovely break – three on two including the ‘keeper – allowed Palmer to race through the middle and set up Joao Pedro to his right, but the striker decided to take a touch, and he sadly hit the ball straight at Pickford who had stayed upright.

On ninety minutes, we were awarded a free kick in a central position.

The Chelsea crowd sang “Hendo again, olé, olé” with thoughts of the goal against Bournemouth. But this was from a different angle. We wondered if, for giggles, he would dummy and Palmer would shoot.

No, it was the same routine. A dummy from Palmer, a shot from Henderson. But this was a poor effort that smacked against the wall.

However, the ball dropped fortuitously to Neto amidst some defenders who calmly side-footed the ball in.

No ecstatic fist punching this time, just a relief that we had surely secured three points.

The Chelsea crowd responded.

“Neto again, olé, olé.”

Eleven minutes of extra-time were signalled.

On ninety-two minutes, some changes.

Marco Palestra for Hato.

Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.

Danny Welbeck for Joao Pedro.

Soon into it, a cross from Dewsbury-Hall was slung in low and skidded wide of the far post with no Everton player near.

Late on, the Chelsea choir sang a familiar song.

“Don’t worry about a thing…”

Then a chant for the manager, and how he would have loved this win, not that we need to dwell too much on the reasons why.

“Oh Xabi Alonso, oh Xabi Alonso.”

There were now thousands of visible blue seats, especially in the home end to our left. I hoped that the horrible slow march south towards my car parking spot of March would not be replicated because many Evertonians had gone home early.

One last change.

Geovany Quenda for Neto.

Thirteen extra minutes were played.

At the whistle, there were thousands of royal blue seats by the royal blue Mersey.

The players came over to celebrate with us. Hendo led the charge. Neto did one but two victory jigs; one per goal.

Hendo and Palestra gave their shirts away.

Good times, at last, at Everton.

We all met up and sauntered – sauntered I tell you – out into the plaza and then the road. The volume of pedestrians was simply nowhere near the level of March. We said our goodbyes to J12, Dave and Rob at Waterloo Quay, and I quickly edged out onto the road. My route out of the city took me under the River Mersey via the Wallasey Tunnel, and thankfully the road volumes were minimal as I headed east on the A56, past Ellesmere Port and signs for Chester and Wrexham.

Alas, on the M6 south, we learned that despite the magnificence of the day thus far, it would not be a perfect one. Malvern Town had struck twice in two minutes in the second half, and my hometown team had succumbed to a shock defeat. We were stunned. Going into the game, our opponents were right at the bottom of the table. However, we remained in sixth place.

Chelsea, however, would end the day – and weekend – in fourth place.

Lovely.

We dipped into “The Vine” at West Bromwich at 5.30pm for a curry – chicken jalfrezi for Glenn, lamb phatia for me, Bombay potatoes, and naan bread for us both – and we shared the premises with West Brom and Blackburn Rovers supporters after their game.

I fuelled up at Frankley Services, then headed home. Around Tewkesbury, the western sky shone with a majestic sunset, a beautiful melange of pinks, oranges, and reds. Again, I longed for an SLR to do it all justice.

Further south, the Malvern Hills loomed in the distance, a reminder of Frome’s defeat.

I retraced my path over the Cotswolds, and I eventually reached home at 9pm, fifteen hours after picking up Glenn.

We had both agreed that it had been a cracking day out.

Thank you for coming along with us.

Tales From London Again, Olé, Olé

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 10 October 2026.

The away game at Brentford seemed like a long time ago. That’s because it was a long time ago.

Three whole weeks.

The extended international break which embraced four England games – I couldn’t name all the opponents if you paid me – meant that there was no Chelsea in my life from Friday 18 September to Saturday 10 October.

And, for the first-time ever, I was more than happy. After that dismal performance in West London, I certainly felt that Xabi Alonso needed a lengthy period to replan and reset. I am sure I wasn’t the only one.

What would I do with myself in those three weeks? Unsurprisingly, Frome Town came to the rescue. There would be five games for me to get stuck into.

I took in a home FA Cup tie against Plymouth Parkway on Saturday 20 September. I enjoyed a competitive first half and Frome were in decent form. There really wasn’t much between the two sides. However, in the second period, we offered little until a late charge and fell to a 0-2 defeat. There was a decent crowd of 546, and a good away following from Devon.

On the following Tuesday, our furthest away trip in the league this season and a very competitive match against the same strong Parkway team. Despite conceding a poor goal early on, we recovered well and gave the home team a very tough battle. I was proud of the way we responded. Sadly, a second goal against the run of play proved decisive. An enjoyable match, though.

On Saturday 27 September, our first tie in the FA Trophy this season pitted us against old adversaries Willand Rovers. On a beautiful afternoon at Badgers Hill, Frome Town never really got going. We went 0-1 down on seventy minutes, but with five minutes to go a perfect cross from substitute Jon Davies found substitute Archie Ferris whose old-school header nestled in the net. We went to penalties, and assured efforts from Zak Drew, Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Jon Davies, aided by two saves from Kyle Philllips, sent us into the next round. The highlight of this game was the appearance of Jimmy the Greek who joined my usual Dodgey match-day companions. He loved it.

On the following Tuesday, we met Somerset rivals Taunton Town at home. This was a decent game. We raced into a 2-0 lead on twenty-one minutes after two goals in a minute from Zack Ali and David Duru. In an open first-half, an own goal gave the visitors a lifeline. In the second period, their rapid breaks caused us problems, and they equalised on the hour. Frome then had a fair few half-chances but could not convert. The attendance of 656 on a wet old night in Dodge was – literally – fan-tastic.

Lastly, I travelled to Yate, just north of Bristol, on Saturday 3 October. Frome laboured on their huge pitch in the first half but kept it scoreless. The second half was a different beast: 0-1 down, 1-1, 1-2 down, 2-2, 3-2 up, 3-3. Our goals came from Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Sam Meakes. However, the game will be remembered for the phenomenal support of some 100+ Frome supporters in the 520 crowd who really got behind the team. The standard for support for the rest of the season had been set. Top marks all round.

For the Bournemouth game, I left a little later than usual. I drove over to Nunney Catch, where PD and Jimmy joined me for a hearty breakfast before the Willand game a fortnight earlier, but I would be fuelling the car and not my stomach on this occasion. On this short ten-minute drive, the Somerset countryside looked immaculate. There was a surreal quality of light, with the early autumn colours being particularly intense in the surrounding fields and hedgerows, and the stone walls of houses and farm buildings jumping to life too. There was almost an Edward Hopper feel to the light. Everything was vivid and vibrant. It was as if I was being reminded that this was my home and that I was, surely, being foolish to be driving a hundred miles to a distant location. Frome Town, after all, were at home to Sholing up and over that ridge of land that defines Frome’s western border.

But no, London was indeed calling to the faraway towns, and by 8.30pm I had collected PD, Glenn and Parky. I sped east, made good time, and was parked up near Queens Club at 11am.

This was Chelsea’s eighth consecutive match in London, and I had mentioned to a few people recently that I was getting bored to death with it. I craved a fresh field, somewhere different. Thankfully, this will all change with a trip to Everton that is tantalizingly looming on the horizon. I look forward to that.

Has this been Chelsea’s longest-ever run of consecutive games in London? I wasn’t sure. However, I remembered that in 1989/90, the capital boasted no less than eight teams in the topflight (a record – and like this season, with no West Ham) so I checked the start of that season. My findings? From 19 August to 30 September, we played eight consecutive league games in London and nine with a home League Cup tie.

Is everyone still awake?

On the drive to London, we had spent many a minute discussing the modern malaise of topflight football, namely the dullness of the passing routines that dominate modern football.

Maybe it is because we will be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our magnificent 1997 FA Cup win this season, but I have been reminiscing about 1996 of late, and I made the point that in addition to us, there were entertaining teams everywhere you looked in the Premier League in 1996/97. Manchester United was a team of swashbuckling heroes, Arsenal could play a bit, Newcastle United were magnificent, Liverpool had some decent players, and even Sheffield Wednesday had Benito Carbone, Middlesbrough had Juninho and Southampton had Matthew Le Tissier. These days, we have regimented patterns of play and pressing statistics.

It’s enough to make a man cry.

My pre-match was spent in two locations; “The Half-Moon Café” for a full English, and then “Walham Green” for a few drinks with the usual suspects, where I again quoted Ian Dury with a post on “Facebook.”

“I could be the driver of an articulated lorry.”

I left to take a few outside shots of Stamford Bridge with my trusty SLR and was inside as early as 2pm. I wanted a few moments of quiet contemplation before the rough and tumble of a Premier League game. Over in the West Stand, our erstwhile travelling companion Ron Harris was attending his first game at Chelsea for eighteen months; he was a guest of the club with his son and daughter, celebrating the refit of the Harris Suite.

The team news?

Emiliano Martinez

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill – Pep Chavarria

Jordan Henderson – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro

We had commented during the day that we are loathe to spend any money at Stamford Bridge – on programmes, on food and drink, on merchandise of any kind – and that, in reality, it shouldn’t be like this. I should be happy to give Chelsea some extra pennies during the season in addition to my £1,030 season ticket. But such is the sense of resentment with many of the club’s policies, that I tend to spend nothing at all these days. With half-an-hour to go, I was absolutely parched but immediately resented paying £4.59 for a bottle of “Diet Coke.”

No sale.

The ground filled up slowly. In the fourth row of The Sleepy Hollow, PD, then Alan, then Clive – fashionably late – joined me.

Overhead, blue skies. Inside, a fine mild temperature. Down at “The Shed”, a super new banner depicting the proud image of Bobby Tambling was held aloft.

It seemed implausible that it was October and yet we had only played just five league games.

But the time had arrived for our next one.

“Let’s go to work.”

The game began.

Within seconds of the start, we witnessed a foraging run from Palmer, in the inside right channel, and he was allowed space. He ate up the yards. As he approached the white lines of the Bournemouth penalty area, and halted his strong run to reposition his mind and look for options, I asked Alan “where’s Frank Lampard when you need him?” which has become a somewhat sad rhetorical question that I have often trotted out since he departed from our team in 2014.

Despite four other Chelsea players in the box, including full back Chavarria, the ball was instead played back towards Henderson, in prime Lampard territory, and the new signing took a perfect swipe at goal from the edge of the “D.” Luckily, I was right behind the course of the ball and saw it swerve, perfectly, beyond the reach of former blue Djordje Petrovic. It did not matter one iota that the shot clipped the post on the way in. We were 1-0 up and barely sixty seconds had elapsed. I clicked as the unlikely scorer raced off towards the East Lower in reckless abandon.

There was a quick “THTCAUN / COMLD” from Alan and myself, and I checked my phone for a couple of messages. Before I had a chance to really pay much attention to our next move, I saw the ball work its way out to the left-hand side of the Bournemouth penalty area and it fell for Morgan Rogers to clip a fine curler towards the goal. I judged there to be a slight flick-on from the head of a Bournemouth defender. It did not matter; the ball curled into the other corner of Petrovic’ goal.

Fackinell.

We were 2-0 up after – what? – just over two minutes?

Alan doubted we had ever scored two goals so early in our one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year history. Don’t worry, I haven’t looked it up.

There was the slight worry of the goal being chalked off due to offside, but VAR didn’t spoil it.

Just after, I saw that Frome Town were 1-0 up in beautiful bucolic Dodge City thanks to a George Dowling strike against Sholing, whose squad had been bolstered recently by the arrival of Andrey Shevchenko’s son Kristian. Just four minutes had passed in that game.

Everything was rosy in SW6 and BA11, but being a typical football fan, we all knew that my two team’s opponents could easily put the kibosh on proceedings.

Indeed, in the fifth minute of play at Stamford Bridge, a rapid break down the Bournemouth left, and a ball that just beat an offside shout allowed Rayan a chance, but he blazed wildly over.

We, unsurprisingly, dominated possession, but I have to say that at times the reluctance to push on and move the ball quickly was a little annoying. Midway through the first half, the away team enjoyed a little spell, but we coped with everything. Despite the 2-0 lead, I found myself getting upset with bits of our play, whether it was a ball that was played behind a team mate rather than in front – meaning an extra touch, some dithering, and the disruption of momentum – or the lack of movements of players into acres of space.

Maybe they were all waiting for everyone to be perfectly set before Passing Play 78/e could take place.

With Bournemouth looking a little more competent, I semi-seriously muttered something about “this game going 2-2 at this rate.”

A shot from Henderson drifted wide.

Cole Palmer, an extended deal recently signed, was a joy to watch on many occasions during this period.

He just does things…differently.

Watching Chelsea without him over the past few seasons would have been so much grimmer.

On thirty-eight minutes, another tight ball through to Rayan that again looked offside – to Alan and me anyway – and the Brazilian sped onto the ball. His shot at goal was well parried by Martinez, and the ‘keeper – clumsily – saved the follow-up shot from Ryan Christie. The loose ball was hacked away by Chavarria. Late on in the half, Martinez saved well from Antonio Silva.

It was 2-0 in SW6 and 1-0 in BA11 at the break.

After the debacle at Brentford, this was so much better. At half-time, we were happy bunnies.

The second half began and Chelsea again got off to a storming start. A lovely ball from Acheampong on the right was swept forward to Neto, and I photographed the moment that he rode a tackle from Silva, gathered himself, then spotted the waiting Joao Pedro inside the box. There was another Lampardesque finish here, and I caught our striker’s firm smash of the ball that flew into the net.

Pedro Neto to Joao Pedro.

For Pete’s sake, we were 3-0 up.

We had played just one minute of the second period. And it looked like my worries about a 2-2 scoreline were unfounded.

However, just five minutes later, an archetypal defensive mess from Chelsea and the away team plundered a goal. A low corner from in front of the quiet away corner was not cleared. Caicedo hacked at the ball, but the clearance struck Evanilson and ricocheted into the goal.

Again, we endured a slightly shady spell. But thank heavens that Moises Caicedo was back in the team. His positional play really is impressive.

On the hour, Alan muttered “we are hanging on here.”

Thankfully, on sixty-seven minutes, a fantastic ball just down below me by Chavarria – full of earnest endeavour, full of running – was tee’d up beautifully for that man Joao Pedro to poke home.

Thankfully he provided me with some lovely moments to photograph as he ran towards us.

“Joao Pedro again, olé, olé.”

Beautiful.

It was 4-1 now.

Phew.

Just three minutes later, a free kick in a very good position, and I photographed the whole shebang. Firstly, Palmer and Henderson chatting. Then the dummy from Palmer. Then the strike from Henderson.

What a beauty.

Petrovic was beaten with an incredible curler.

The photos continued as the two Chelsea players ran away together, pointing at each other. This training-pitch gem had been brilliantly reconstructed on the Stamford Bridge pitch.

“Hendo again, olé, olé.”

5-1.

Lovely.

The Matthew Harding begged The Shed to give them a song, and they – quietly – obliged.

Xabi Alonso made some late changes.

72 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Caicedo and Marco Palestra for Joao Pedro.

The debutant Palestra instantly reminded me of Paolo Maldini.

83 minutes : Danny Welbeck for Neto.

84 minutes : Estevao for Rogers.

88 minutes : Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Standing ovations for all five from me, if not too many others.

In the ninety-second minute, Estevao should have made it six but his shot from close-in failed to force a save.

Sadly, down in Deepest Dodge, Frome Town succumbed to a ninetieth minute goal that gave Sholing – no Shevchenko junior, nor his watching father – a share of the points.

Not to worry. This had been a decent game in West London, and the three points – plus five goals – gave us all a welcome fillip before our travels begin.

Right then, how do I get to Merseyside?

The International Break : Game One – Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway.

The International Break : Game Two – Plymouth Parkway vs. Frome Town.

The International Break : Game Three – Frome Town vs. Willand Rovers.

The International Break : Game Four – Frome Town vs. Taunton Town.

The International Break : Game Five – Yate Town vs. Frome Town.

London Again, Olé, Olé.

Tales From The Birds And The Bees

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Brentford vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2026.

Game number seven out of eight on the spin in London was a Friday evening set-to with neighbours Brentford at their compact Gtech Community Stadium. I drove up to West London from work at 2pm and deposited Messrs. Daniels and Parkins outside the Bell & Crown near Kew Bridge at 4.10pm. This plethora of trips to London were on one hand monotonous but on the other hand straightforward. In the case of Brentford, quick too.

On the easy drive to The Smoke, we mentioned that it felt odd to heap praise on the Premier League for once, but their decision to announce changes to the busy Christmas programme a few months in advance was very well received by everyone. Some changes were especially fortuitous for me. By moving our away game at Coventry City to Sunday 27 December, it meant that I could attend the Frome Town vs. Poole Town match on Boxing Day and by shunting our home match against Newcastle United to Sunday 3 January it will allow me to travel to Bath City the day before.

It’s a win-win for me, or hopefully a win-win-win-win.

I had arranged pre-parking further west at Ferry Quays and I slotted into a space there at 4.30pm. I had not had a great deal to eat at work all day, so I was famished. Within a few yards of the car park, there were Thai, Ukrainian and Georgian restaurants but I liked the look of a Turkish one called “Galata Pera.” It had opened at 4pm, so my timing was perfect. I spotted a couple at an adjacent table, and I recognised the woman from Chelsea. She didn’t seem to recognise me, but the man did. We got there in the end. They were from West Sussex. It was typical for me to bump into Chelsea folk at an away game.

What with this restaurant being new to me, its exotic food – I wolfed down some tiger prawns with wholesome Turkish bread and then a stuffed aubergine – and the Turkish music playing, this almost – almost! – seemed like an away game in Europe. It brought back memories of that time in Istanbul in 2014 when I sat outside a café, relatively close to Galata Tower (which this restaurant close to the Thames was surely named) before a titanic match with Galatasaray.

My mind took a flight of fancy as I was immediately transplanted to that exotic city on the banks of the Bosphorus. Overhead, however, the groan and grumble of aircraft descending towards Heathrow through a blanket of dull grey clouds brought me back down to Earth, or at least Hounslow.

Tonight was all about a domestic battle and points in the Premier League.

Knowing that there are severe searches at the away end, I had jettisoned my SLR for this game. Instead, I was having to rely on my far-from-top-quality camera ‘phone.

On the walk back to the pub, I attempted to take a few shots of the river, but everything was too dreary for words; the grey sky, the brown of the river, the gloominess of the trees.

Instead, I decided to point my camera at a tower that is the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam – doesn’t that sound as dull as Thames water? – but just before I took the photo a mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead. I was instantly reminded of that Alfred Hitchcock film. Was this a foretaste of doom? An indication of a nightmare ahead? Perhaps, then, at that exact moment I should have returned to the restaurant for some baklava and strong coffees and given the game a miss. However, I pressed on.

I joined up with PD, Parky and a bunch of friends from all over the Chelsea kingdom. I met up with Jimmy the Greek from North London, Salisbury Steve from Wiltshire, the brothers Dave and Glenn from Putney, BJ and two of his mates from Texas, the returning Nat and Sujin from Kansas and California, plus Matt and Rachel from Virginia.

“The Bell and Crown” became busy during my stay of over an hour. There was chit-chat, laughter and a few “hellos” to other Chelsea supporters we recognised.

The spikey issue of ticket availability was a main topic of conversation. I suspect that many Chelsea fans believe that foreign supporters are gifted an easier path to obtaining tickets at Stamford Bridge and at away venues than those from more local areas, but my friends from the US told me that it is getting increasingly difficult, rather than easier.

It always saddens me to read on various US / CFC pages on “Facebook” that supporters asking for advice on acquiring tickets to Stamford Bridge are often told to go down the hospitality route. I always felt this was a shame, especially for first-time visitors. First visits should aim to be among the rank-and-file in areas where – until recently anyway – there is more singing and more atmosphere.

For an avid Chelsea supporter to be watching a first game at Stamford Bridge in West View fills me with utter sadness, yet this is the route that the suits at the club crave. For many seasons, I was able to use my network of friends at Chelsea to source spares for visitors – face value, always face value – as did others. It was part of the fabric of our club. It was the way fans operated.

These days, it has changed.

I spoke to Matt and Rachel about this.

“Rather than doing the hard work, making connections with local fans, getting to know them, getting access to a seat via them, newbies feel like they have to use a fast-track system involving huge prices and the high-end hospitality areas of Stamford Bridge.”

I mentioned that my view of this can be compared to my view of AI. Rather than create content using individual skills, people are fast-tracked into getting AI to create God-knows-what, and at God-knows-what cost to the world. Everyone seems to love a short cut, a cheat, a line of least resistance.

I hate modern life.

We stopped by the colourful entrance to the pub on Thames Road for photos and then walked off towards the stadium. There was another photo on Lionel Road as we went our separate ways. Sujin and Nat had been unable to meet the criteria for US fans to get away tickets, so had – through a lucky contact of Nat’s – been able to get two tickets together in the home area.

I told them to sit on their hands should we score. Jumping to their feet should Brentford score would be a trickier operation, as I have found out at various locations such as Arsenal, Leeds United and Blackburn. I also told Nat not to get a selfie with Barry the Bee (“or whatever the fucking Brentford mascot is called”) unlike the div at Arsenal a few weeks ago.

Nat had replied, “good job I am allergic to bees.”

Quite.

Bloody typical, I waltzed through two security checks and wasn’t searched once. I could easily have wrapped my SLR in my rain jacket and smuggled it in. Bollocks.

For some reason, Brentford still went with paper tickets. A quick scan and I was in.

It was 7.35pm, just twenty minutes after we left the pub.

PD very kindly swapped seats with me as I said that taking photos so near the front – row 6 – would have been useless. He gave me his ticket for row 31, just four from the rear.

I spotted BJ a few rows in front; he had to get duplicate tickets from the home box office before the game so was happy that it went smoothly.

I also spotted Matt and Rachel, close by.

With ten minutes to go, the theme from “The Great Escape” was played in its entirety. Is that their song, now? OK.

Then, the lights dimmed and were followed by the usual technicolour barrage of spotlights and flashes. Thankfully no fireworks.

“Hey Jude” and both sets of fans joined in.

The excitable PA went through the teams.

For Jordan Henderson there were predictable boos (from the home fans, I might add) as he made his Chelsea debut. We surmised that Joao Pedro had been left out of the Brazil squad because of injury so his absence here was expected.

But Jordan Henderson and Danny Welbeck starting? Blimey.

Emilio Martinez

Wesley Fofana – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill

Pedro Neto – Jordan Henderson – Valentin Barco – Pep Chavarria

Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Danny Welbeck

I am always flabbergasted when I see the folly of wearing a predominantly black kit at a night game. Surely, I am not the only one.

We attacked the home end in the first half, and there was a loud succession of Chelsea songs from the choir all around me. A very noisy “One Man Went To Mow” was followed by an angry rendition of “Zigger Zagger” and I was pleased that I was joining in. What is it they say about football allowing us to get rid of pent-up frustrations from the working week? On the pitch we started very brightly and moved the ball around – but mainly forward – as quickly and as economically as most of us would wish.

This was promising to see.

There was the usual ode to someone called Solomon Kalou, and as soon as I heard it, I knew what I had to do. I sent a message via WhatsApp at 8.09pm to Jimmy the Greek ten yards or so to my right.

“It’s Salomon!”

At 8.09pm, Jimmy the Greek sent a message to me via Messenger.

“It’s Salomon!”

I then spotted him in the crowd, alongside Parky, and we smiled and then took it in turns, at breaks in the chant, to shout the same thing.

“It’s Salomon!”

Valentin Barco was impressing me with his neat give-and-go, and the passing was crisp. Pep Chavarria was an oft-used outlet down the left, and Pedro Neto on the right was often given the ball to run at his defender. On ten minutes, a cross from Chavarria, a neat set up by Danny Welbeck, but a shot from Neto was saved by Kelleher.

Brentford, despite looking a threat on breaks and at set pieces, did not really trouble the Chelsea defence that seemed, for once, to be on top of things.

The away support mocked the home club.

“You’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

But for all our possession, we created so little.

On twenty-nine minutes, a free kick fizzed at the ‘keeper, but there had not been much else. Just after, the best ball of the game from Cole Palmer dissected the space between two defenders but Neto wasted the opportunity.

There were two chances in quick succession at our end; Emilio Martinez got down well to save, and then a shot was sent over the bar.

With five minutes to go to the break, Chavarria set up Morgan Rogers but there was a block by Jannik Schuster and the shot went wide.

The last chance of the half fell to Brentford, but another shot was aimed at Martinez.

The Chelsea crowd, so noisy at the beginning, were very quiet in the last few minutes of the half.

I sent a WhatsApp message out : “the steam has gone out of us, hasn’t it?”

The second half began, and the action was still up the other end. After five minutes, Brentford clipped the bar following a Martinez save but offside had been called anyway. Worryingly, the home team seemed to have more belief.

The away support wakened from our slumbers and raucously got behind the players.

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

Just after, a quick break, but a shot from Chavarria flew wide.

At this stage, it felt like a 0-0 game.

But what do I know?

On the hour, a Brentford corner away to our left. Again, there was an unhindered leap at the far post, by Schuster, but unlike the Hull City game, a looping header did not go straight in but sat up nicely for Jaidon Anthony to head home.

Bloody hell.

We tried to rally.

For a while, it seemed that it was going to be Private Sponge’s big day as Jordan Henderson took corner after corner. One delivery caused panic for the home guard, but the chance came and went.

On seventy minutes, a cross from the right from Neto was aimed at Welbeck. Our veteran’s response was to blatantly push his marker. What a load of nonsense.

Just after he was replaced by Geovany Quenda and Josh Acheampong took over from Wesley Fofana.

The three centre-backs had not performed at anything like the level we hope for and Fofana was the worst by a long chalk.

The Chelsea fans were quiet now. Our fight had disappeared too.

Our chances piled up, but virtually every effort was blocked by the legion of red and white shirted jerseys. Henderson continued as the corner-taker down below us, but annoyingly this often involved playing the ball short to Rogers. Surely his presence would have been better served in the penalty area? It baffled me.

Palmer twisted and turned and managed a stab at goal, but the ball spun wide. At times I thought our playmaker was too indulgent.

Lo and behold, on the eighty-third minute, a rapid break from Brentford and the ball was punched into space for Schade. I, of course, immediately feared the worst.

“Fackinell here we go.”

Schade approached and shot at goal. Martinez saved, but I still sensed danger. I brought my hands up and clasped my head as I watched the follow up from Igor Thiago go in.

Sigh.

I was sad to see many among the away support leave the stadium at this point.

What are we? Tottenham?

It was now the turn of the Brentford supporters to cheer with self-deprecation.

“We’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

On eighty-seven minutes, Xabi Alonso made more changes.

Estevao Willian for Neto.

Mahdi Nicoll-Jazuli for Barco, a debut for him.

On ninety-two minutes, we conjured up a fancy free-kick routine – too little too late – and Maxence Lacroix headed over.

Two minutes later, while I was trying desperately to unlock my phone – so I could phone The Samaritans – I heard the deep burr of a Northern Irish supporter behind me gravely exclaim “three-null”.

I looked up to see Fabio Carvalho smash the ball in from close-range.

Good God.

Brentford 3 Chelsea 0.

By the time of the final whistle, there were virtually no Chelsea supporters around me. The photo of the empty seats was taken just after the final whistle. Only a few fans were left in my section by this stage.

I had noticed two American women in front of me during the game and I had enjoyed their reactions to the ribald singing in the opening minutes. I wondered if they were two of the many foreigners that had chosen this game as a “bucket list” assignment and if this was their first Chelsea match. As I made my way out, I made polite conversation with one, and she told me that she had been a Chelsea fan for years, and this immediately impressed me. She added that she would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.

Sigh.

I made my way out, hands in pockets, bewildered.

I met up with PD and Parky, whose faces were as long as mine.

Showing predictable gallows humour, I turned to three policemen out on the main road and said, “can you arrest me, so I don’t have to watch Chelsea over the next few weeks?”

Of course, that joke backfired on me as I soon realised that there would be no Chelsea, now, for three long weeks anyway.

What a horrible night. Were there any positives? Hardly. Although, looking back, many supporters thought that we had looked tighter defensively in that first-half. In the car, I singled out Pep Chavarria who showed some hearty endeavour before we all slumped together. But apart from him, and maybe Valentin Barco at times, what a lack-lustre performance. What on Earth did Xabi Alonso say to the team at the break? Whatever it was, let’s hope he doesn’t say it again.

Despite a 4am alarm call, thankfully I didn’t feel too tired as I drove west. I eventually reached home at 1.15am.

It had indeed been an evening of birds and bees.

And Chelsea had been well-and-truly fucked.

“A mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead.”

Brentford vs. Chelsea

“She would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.“

Tales From Two Archbishop Desmonds

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Two games were on my mind on this day. My local team Frome Town were playing Hanwell Town at home, while Chelsea were also at home to Hull City. If I am honest, I wanted to see both. Frome were riding the crest of a fine recent wave – three wins, fifth in the league – but I knew that I would be attending the Chelsea match. This wasn’t to be something as serious or as life changing as me having to decide between the two.

“The first temptation of Chris?”

Not quite.

But I knew that I wished I could have been in two places at once. One day I will have to decide between Chelsea and Frome Town. It will be the toughest of decisions, the toughest of days.

At 6.50am, I set off for London.

The Half-Moon Cafe

We have been visiting “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road for a few years now. I had dropped PD and LP at “The Eight Bells” at 9.45am, where they breakfasted at “The River Café”, but I had to park up near Queens Club, so tied in a visit to this excellent café first. Everything lined up in a traditional 4-4-2.

Bubble

Bacon – Bread – Butter – Fried Egg

Baked Beans – Liver – Black Pudding – Mug Of Tea

English Mustard – Brown Sauce

I wolfed it all down. Not only tasty but cheap; all this for just £11.50.

The Eight Bells

From my spot on Kinnoul Road, I decided to walk the mile-and-a-half from the bottom end of Hammersmith to the bottom end of Fulham. The District Line was closed, so many supporters going to the match would be faced with alternative methods of reaching Stamford Bridge and their usual watering holes. I got my steps in and was happy that I walked into the pub at 11.19am, not 11.20am, one minute ahead of schedule. We’re always happy to beat the GPS predictions, aren’t we? Deano had just joined Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky and P-Diddy.

The People Who Grinned Themselves To Death

I soon took a photo of the lads and shared it on “Facebook”. Deano had just mentioned that he had played some Beautiful South in the morning, but chastised himself for the links to The Housemartins, and thus Hull. So, I jumped in and gave the photo a reference that stemmed from The Housemartins’ second album. Rather that, on this day of days, than the title of their first one; London 0 Hull 4.

PD And Deano

The Perry Boys. Steve was wearing a Fred Perry polo-shirt too, and to complete the roll-call, Parky was wearing a “Pretty Green” polo shirt, and I was wearing a “K-Way” polo. After all, Hurlingham was just a stone’s throw away.

Selfie

My friends Nat from Kansas and Sujin from California arrived at 12.30pm and settled down for a chat alongside us. I last Saw Nat at Cardiff City last year, but I had not seen Sujin since a match at Manchester City a few years ago. Nat is a keen University of Kansas college football fan and when she mentioned their rivalry with Missouri, I reluctantly mentioned that the latter’s band, “The Marching Mizzou” once appeared at Stamford Bridge before and, infamously, during a game that I attended against Derby County in March 1975. Her face dropped. Nat was aghast that Kansas’ big rivals had a link with her beloved Chelsea. There was also a predictably sad moment when I asked where their two seats were located. Whenever friends say “West Lower” I always feel like giving them a pacifying hug and say something sympathetic, knowing that it’s a quiet section of the stadium, full of folk that never feel the need to join in with our hundred and one songs of support. We spoke about a lot of football and I absolutely loved it that both Americans saw the logic of me and my boycott of the 2026 World Cup.

Chelsea Smiles

We caught a bus on Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway, then made our way towards Stamford Bridge. Time was moving on but there was time for photos.

London Five

Wiltshire, Somerset, Kansas, California. Ironically, we had not mentioned the match in the pub. But Hull City were riding high and yet to concede a single goal.

Fly The Flag

I was in, rather too rushed for my liking, at 2.45pm. I took my place alongside Alan, Clive and PD, fresh from the nine-goal jamboree on Wednesday. I spotted a new addition among the flags and banners in The Shed Upper; an old-school Union Jack that carried the same Chelsea font as an infamous flag featured in “The Football Factory” in 2004.

Teams

I was looking forward to seeing the fine lines of the classic Hull City kit. In my mind, it’s the best of the bunch of this season’s Premier League teams. I love the broad stripes and far from intrusive sponsor. It’s class. Ours isn’t too far behind.

Xabi Alonso lined up his troops in a 4-2-3-1

Emi Martinez

Malo Gusto –  Wesley Fofana – Levi Colwill – Jorrel Hato

Reece James – Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro.

Hands Up

Oh those lovely kits.

Flap

In the early-exchanges, I caught a shot of Emi Martinez attempting to catch a high ball. His form over the course of the game would be variable, to say the least.

Goal

After just seven minutes, a lovely break up field. Palmer carried the ball up the right, guided the ball inside to Joao Pedro, who passed the ball on to Rogers. A burst of speed, a low shot at goal. It wasn’t apparent to me, straight away, that the ball was in. The roar of the crowd, and the lack of a linesman’s flag, was enough.

Joy

I love the smiles on the face of the scorer and the supporters in the East Lower.

Leap

And I love this leap against the backdrop of supporters too.

Remembering

Just after another lovely passing move that ended with a shot from Gusto, many of the crowd – literally thousands – clapped on the twelfth minute in memory of the much-loved Agi who passed away during the week. I stood, too, as did a few around me. Although I never see it on a match day, there is a large Cyprus Blues flag that hangs on the wall of the Matthew Harding to my immediate right, overlooking the West enclosure. Agi was proud of this permanent fixture at his beloved Stamford Bridge. I took a photo of a flag that usually hangs at the other end of the West Lower. It’s the flag that father and son Tony and Kyle Broadbent took to Munich in 2012. Sadly, not long after Munich, Kyle died in a terrible accident at work, and then the grief-stricken Tony died of cancer a few years later. It seemed appropriate to commemorate all three on this day.

Loft

Here, Neto tries to hit a blue shirt from a free kick. On twenty-one minutes, Palmer was in a very similar position to his goal on Wednesday, and I was hoping for the same cool shot to the left, but he passed outside to Neto and the chance was lost. Until then, we had carried the bigger threat but looked slower than most occasions this season in moving the ball forward. Not long after, the Hull City ‘keeper Konstantinos Tzolakis went down injured, and there was a break in play.

Punt

After the extended stoppage, the visiting goalie took a goal-kick that was punted long. The ball bounced high inside our half, but the next time that a player touched it was when it was a couple of yards from the goal-line below me, and Gusto was trying to shadow his marker and hope that the ball would go off for a goal-kick at our end. Alas, a stronger challenge would have been better. Ryan Giles was able to hook the ball in, high, but Hato made a complete mess of the flight of the ball, decided not to meet the bounce. Mohamed Belloumi was on hand to smash the ball past the dive of Martinez. Bollocks.

You’re So Vane

I wonder how many in our global support base – millions upon millions of the buggers – can name the former player who is depicted on the old weathervane that sits high upon the East Stand roof. Down below on the pitch, Hull created a very similar chance that resulted in Leeds’ second goal on Wednesday. A cross, a lay-off, but thankfully Martinez saved the effort this time.

Catch

Martinez caught this one, and so did I.

Tigers

The visiting Hull supporters packed out their allocation of three thousand. I have enjoyed visiting Hull over the years – five games, five wins – and it is a city that now shuffles its love for both rugby league and football. We once memorably stayed in a hotel / pub in Hull for the mighty sum of £7.50 per person for the game in 2020.

Chasing The Game

Six minutes after the equaliser, a corner down below me, and a free header from Semi Ajayi with Martinez unable to reach the cross. His effort crashed against the bar. It came back and Belloumi was able to slam the ball in via a deflection. Buggering bollocks. Soon after, the away supporters sang “we’re gonna win the league” but nobody believed them. Not even them.

Wide

This shot from Gusto was deflected wide.

Spot The Ball

There had been a terrible lack of movement from the lads in the forward positions as the first half fizzled out.  Two lame corners ended a frustrating half. Sadly, down in Frome, Dodge were losing too; 0-1. Hanwell Town’s home ground is just eight miles from Stamford Bridge. I was hoping for a “Frome / Chelsea doubler” this season but it won’t happen; shame. At the break, we were all disappointed with our wilting in the second part of the first period. Alan handed out some treats to cheer us. He did the same midweek. Would his lucky halftime Cadbury’s chocolates do the trick like they did against Leeds, or were these ideas of mine just a careless Wispa? At the break, Alonso replaced Hato with Chavarria.

Twist

This was a classic Cole Palmer move. I love capturing these moments.

Threatening

We hoped a new vitality would dominate as we attacked – here via Rogers – the Matthew Harding. Down in Somerset, joy as Jon Davies made it 1-1.

Line

I often try to capture the jostling for position at throws and corners. It’s almost like a sub sport these days; a sport within a sport. Or rather, a non-sport.

Face-Off

Joao Pedro, up to his antics.

Sir!

“He’s being naughty, sir!”

Who? Me?

“What have I done?”

Waiting

Reece James takes aim.

Shot

Sadly this flew wide.

Waiting For The Ball To Drop

All eyes on the prize.

Claimed

The Hull City ‘keeper just about reached this. At the other end, Martinez blocked well from Regan Slater, then reacted to stop the ball from reaching Oli McBurnie.

Wing Play

Neto put in another good shift out wide, but I am afraid that his final ball was occasionally lacking. Nevertheless, this felt like we were turning the screw.

Pace

On sixty-six minutes, I captured the pace of Cole Palmer on film, as he raced past his marker down below me. He nutmegged a second defender, and the ball was played perfectly to the waiting Joao Pedro.

Wallop

I only caught the follow-through of the strike; the ball was well on its way into the top of the goal net. It was absolutely slammed home.

Thumbs Up

Phew.

Let’s Go

There were no celebrations; just a desire to keep going.

Close

More wing play from Neto. Down in Somerset, Frome were 2-1 via a first-ever goal from left-back Zack Ali. On seventy minutes, much applause for Valentin Barco who replaced Romeo Lavia. The Chelsea world has been purring about Barco of late. Alan said that he was reminded of N’golo Kante somewhat, what with his nimble-feet and effortless passing. Chavarria down below me was enjoying a fine game; something about his running style and his gait reminds me so much of Cesar Azpilicueta.

At The Other End

On seventy-five minutes, a low shot from James was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, Danny Welbeck replaced Gusto. He hadn’t had a great game, but I didn’t like the roar as his name was announced. At the other end, Brooke Norton-Cuffey broke well but this shot did not worry Martinez. An effort from Welbeck – his first touch I think – was saved.

A Late Chance

A strong run from Rogers suggested we had it in us to nab a late winner, but his low shot was saved by Tzolakis. However, with five minutes to go I admitted to Clive “I’ll take a draw now.”

A Low Cole

This lad’s close control was amazing, even when off balance.

Outnumbered

Five against one, he still maintained possession. At the other end, a super low cross was met at the back stick by Mohamed-Ali Cho, but Martinez scrambled across to smother brilliantly. Down in Frome, Hanwell Town scored a very late equaliser, and it ended 2-2.

Fresh Legs

On eighty-six minutes, Alonso replaced Neto with Estevao and Fofana with Lacroix. The Brazilian soon tested the Hull ‘keeper at his near post.

Closing In

Here, the zesty Brazilian tries to race away but our marked man sees his space closed down.

Pink Boots

What would Chopper have made of all of this? Estevao was upended soon after this photo, and we sensed one final chance.

Summit Talks

Five Chelsea players figure out the best way to steal a winner.

Decision Time

Cole or Reece? I wasn’t sure, but it was more suited to an inswinger from Cole.

Over

The ball ballooned over, the final moment.

So, two 2-2 draws for my two teams, and that was that. It took me a further thirty minutes to walk the one-and-a-half miles back to the car; at least I had given myself a nice cardio-vascular workout between the breakfasts and the football. I back-tracked down to “The Mitre” to collect my fellow passengers and we headed west.

It had been a disappointing game of course; there is no doubt. But I had to keep reminding myself that Xabi Alonso has only had six games – and only four Premier League games – to test his ideas and to get some sort of plan together.

He knows where there are shortcomings.

He knows the score.

We’ll be OK.

See you at Brentford.

Tales From A Nine-Goal Thriller

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 9 September 2026.

Here was yet another trip to London, the fifth in a run of eight Chelsea matches, all in the capital. On this Wednesday night, neatly sandwiched between two league games, we were playing a League Cup tie at home to our old adversaries Leeds United. Additionally, here was a condensed stretch of three trips to London in just seven days.

PD came up with me for this match. After parking up on Rylston Road, I spotted friends Liz and Long Tall Pete in “Vanston Cafe” at the bottom end of the North End Road and joined them for a bite to eat. This was a first visit for me; I wolfed down a chicken schnitzel burger, and two of Pete’s spicey chicken goujons for good measure too. Tasty food – recommended!

I spent some time with PD and Salisbury Steve at “The Eight Bells” where it was lovely and quiet, and we had a good natter. News of the starting eleven came through as we made our way up the steep steps at Putney Bridge tube station.

Xabi Alonso had certainly rung the changes.

Mike Penders

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill

Malo Gusto – Reggie Watson – Valentin Barco – Pep Chavarria

Estevao Willian – Danny Welbeck – Jamie Gittens

A debut, then, for young Reggie, at just sixteen and-a-half years old. A lad young enough to be my grandson if I had originated from Liverpool.

Gulp.

That’s a gulp for me coming from Liverpool, not him being my grandson.

Alas, there were delays on the District Line, with trains being held in both directions, and this resulted in us waiting on the northbound platform for over half-an-hour. More than a few Leeds fans disappeared off to find buses, cabs and Ubers. We decided to wait it out. At last, we just about squeezed on a train at just after 7.30pm. On the way to Fulham Broadway, we heard that the kick-off had been delayed for fifteen minutes. Outside the West Stand, I had never seen so many folks lining up to enter. Delaying until 8.15pm was a sensible move.

I made it to my seat at 7.55pm.

There were rumours of an incident at South Ken, but Alan had also heard of trouble at High Street Ken. I wondered if some Everton supporters had finally appeared after being chased down the tunnels at that station in 1978.

Stamford Bridge never looked like being full on this Wednesday night.

However, the Sleepy Hollow was in full force for this match; me, Alan, Clive, PD sitting cheek-by-jowl. Long Tall Pete was in the row in front. Perhaps he was looking for his two chicken goujons. Pete, like many, had been displaced from The Shed by the four thousand visitors from Yorkshire.

I smirked when I saw three thousand of them in the Shed Upper massed behind signage that proclaimed “World Champions.”

“No, not you.”

The teams took to the pitch.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Leeds in yellow / black / yellow.

This was an odd choice from them; if it had been blue shorts, they would have not looked so alien. Their club colours from time immemorial are white, yellow and blue.

The game began with us attacking their supporters in The Shed. Soon into the game, they began their choruses of a few favourites.

“All Leeds aren’t we?”

“We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds.”

We edged the first part of the match. There was a decent run by Gittens on the left, and into the penalty box, but his shot was parried by ‘keeper Michael Zetterer, whoever he might be. This was followed up by some nice play between some blue shirts, but a shot was blocked. The visitors were sloppy with their passing and gave the ball away cheaply in the first quarter of an hour.

Despite the noise emanating from The Shed, he Matthew Harding – which had been virtually silent – decided to mock the away support for their support.

This was pure irony.

Pure pantomime.

I suspect that Leeds had sold virtually all their allotted tickets, and these were probably priced more than the standard £30 for league games. I would have liked to have heard more from our loyalists but there were only sporadic outbursts from the home areas.

Sigh.

On twenty minutes the game came to life. A long throw from the far side was not dealt with, and Brenden Aaronson latched on to a loose ball. Penders blocked well from close range but was then able to spring to his feet to push over a header from Tarik Muharemovic.

From my angle, the saves looked spectacular.

I gasped “that’s almost the best I’ve seen up here” to Alan.

Penders pushed the ball behind from the resultant corner, but from the next one, we witnessed a different story. The ball was pumped long, and despite the close attention of three Chelsea defenders, Muharemovic climbed at the back stick and looped a header back over Penders who had wandered into no man’s land.

I saw the ball cross the line, but there was an eery silence for half-a-second until a) the Leeds fans saw the reactions of their players and b) the noise travelled the one-hundred and twenty yards to my lugholes.

Bollocks.

CFC 0 LUFC 1

Leeds, with their tails up, then dominated the game. On twenty-six minutes, a fine run and cross into the box, and we were lucky to escape. Three minutes later, a one-two and a strong run and cross by Danny James on their right, and the ball fell to Sean Longstaff, but he rushed his shot and the ball flew over.

Leeds were impressing me with their all-round play. We were second best all over the pitch.

On thirty-six minutes, the much-maligned Gusto did not spot the run from deep from Estevao and chose not to pass into space to allow the Brazilian the chance to advance. What followed was a pitiful display of “woe-is-me” histrionics from the youngster, and when he threw his arms up in a show of indignation, it looked like he was treating the people of Wakefield, Bramley, Pudsey and Beeston to his very own Christ the Redeemer.

Bloody hell.

We carved out so few chances.

On forty-two minutes, the ridiculously quiet Welbeck went just wide from an Estevao pass. Efforts from Gittens and Barco did not trouble the Leeds ‘keeper.

The debutant Watson was booked for a tackle that was pure Vinnie Jones in the final minute of the half.

At the break, the mood was very negative. Collectively we had been poor, and individually too. Watson the debutant had shown a degree of effort and enthusiasm, but of course it is so difficult to knit everyone together when they have not played as an eleven ever before.

During the day, my friend Jimmy had shared some sad news about a well-known Chelsea supporter who had passed away that afternoon. His dear friend Akis Kyriakou (aka “Aki” / “Agi”) had retired back to Cyprus recently, and Jimmy only visited him at a care home on Monday while he was on holiday. Agi had been suffering with dementia for some time. I can’t claim to know Agi well, but I recognised his face and he recognised mine. I would bump into him on European trips, and he was always smiling. Agi was deeply loved in the Chelsea community. His “Cyprus Blues” flag proudly flew on the West Stand wall for many years. At half-time I went to say a few words to my friend Zak, a dear friend of Agi and Jimmy, and we remembered him fondly.

RIP AKIS KYRIAKOU

As I returned to my seat, I saw Reece James and Pedro Neto warming up on the pitch. However, Alonso was not stopping with just two changes.

He made a phenomenal four substitutions at half-time.

Neto for Gusto.

James for Watson.

Palmer for Estevao.

Rogers for Gittens.

Our personnel suddenly seemed to increase in value by 100%.

But the pesky Northerners were not keeping to the script. Just two minutes into the half, a strong run by Ethan Ampadu, wrestling his way easily past Rogers, enabled him to reach the by-line and cross low. The ball was craftily touched back by Lukas Nmecha – “oh here we go” – and Aaronson smashed the ball in.

Fackinell.

South 0 North 2.

The away support roared.

“UNITED ARE BACK. UNITED ARE BACK.”

Momentarily, all seemed lost.

But Chelsea started to piece things together. On fifty-three minutes, Chavarria was upended by James in the box, and we were handed a lifeline. Palmer claimed the ball and confidently smashed the penalty to the ‘keeper’s left. It nestled snugly in the corner of the goal nets.

Perfect.

Vinnie Jones 1 Tony Dorigo 2

With that, Stamford Bridge, so docile until then, seemed to be injected with a lorryload of Class A stimulants, and the noise boomed around the stands. Leeds must have wondered what had hit it.

“CAREFREE – WHEREVER YOU MAY BE.”

Lo and behold, just two minutes later, a throw from Acheampong, a chested lay-off from Rogers into the path of Palmer, and from the edge of the “D”, the coolest finish anyone is likely to witness this season. A nonchalant sweep of his left peg, and the ball slowly tumbled into the goal, with Zetterer either unwilling or unable to move. He would probably claim he was unsighted, since Palmer deftly aimed around a lone defender.

Ron Harris 2 Billy Bremner 2

Now the noise went up a notch further.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.”

Three minutes later, Palmer to James, but just wide.

On the hour, delicate skill from Barco – growing into the game now – allowed the ball to be moved on. Leeds inadvertently passed the ball to Palmer who advanced the ball towards Rogers, making a strong central run. His slide moved the ball on, and from a very similar position to Palmer, Neto aimed at the far post.

Zetterer was again beaten.

The place erupted again.

Pensioners 3 Peacocks 2

The noise increased even more.

We were all breathless.

Just five minutes later, and just after Palmer had gone close, we witnessed lovely skill from Danny Welbeck inside the box from a pinpoint Rogers cross. He dummied one way before swivelling to stab home the other. His euphoric run over to the far corner was accompanied by tumultuous cheering.

Bloody hell.

Blue / Blue / Yellow 4 White / White / Red 2

Palmer hit the side netting.

Would there be more goals? Sadly yes, at The Shed End. Substitute Dominic Calvert-Lewin finished off a crisp one-touch move with fifteen minutes to go, and – ridiculously – it became nervy again.

Millwall Badge 4 Smiley Badge 3

Wesley Fofana replaced Colwill. The game began again, with a new vigour and a new sense of jeopardy.

On eighty minutes, Rogers broke strongly down the right and aimed a low cross into the six-yard box. The luckless ‘keeper touched it towards the waiting Barco, who smashed the ball purposefully home.

Headhunters 5 Service Crew 3.

The Bridge noise levels went through the roof and other cliches.

I caught the Argentinian’s slide down below me and caught his wild emotion. This was another fine game from the young lad; on the evidence provided, he might well turn out to be the buy of the season.

Still Leeds kept going; here was a mazy run into our box on their left, but a shot was blocked.

Palmer fancied varying it with an impudent chip, but the ball was well over.

Six minutes of extra-time were signalled.

In the fourth of those, a nice move built up after Leeds head tennis, and Palmer flicked towards finding Neto wide right. His ball inside was helped on by Rogers, then Palmer again. It ran to Barco who slashed wildly. The ball was heading off for a goal-kick but hit Welbeck and caromed into the net.

Wallop!

Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink 6 David Hopkin 3.

What a bloody ridiculous night. At half-time, nobody could have possibly expected us to score six in the second half. At times, it was breathtaking. It was glorious. And it was loud.

In fact, the noise produced from 1-2 onwards was the highlight for me. It showed that we can still produce our old-style Chelsea noise when needed.

Top marks.

Happy to snap five of the nine goals too.

I walked back to the car and collected PD from outside “The Mitre” within twenty minutes. After a delayed kick-off, I was hoping for a quick getaway. Alas, soon into my return trip home, the Fulham Palace Road was closed so I had to painfully retrace my path back to the North End Road. On top of that, the M4 and then the A303 was closed. This meant that I had to trudge slowly over Salisbury Plain through Ludgershall to Devizes.

On the way home, we wondered if we had ever been losing at half-time, with no goals, only to score six in the second period.

I doubt it.

We thought about nine goals in a game.

Neither of us had seen more. We both remembered the 1986 Full Members Cup Final, when nine goals were bizarrely shared and this was my personal high for many a year. How odd that my first trip to Wembley with Chelsea would result in nine goals. I had recollections of a 7-2 home win a few years back, but the 6-3 win at Goodison Park in 2014 didn’t come readily to mind.

But these games remain the highest for me.

1986 : Chelsea 5 Manchester City 4.

2010 : Chelsea 7 Sunderland 2.

2014 : Everton 3 Chelsea 6.

2026 : Chelsea 6 Leeds United 3.

Nearing Melksham, where PD’s car was waiting, I was hanging.

“I just want to brush my teeth and get to bed.”

I eventually reached home at 1.40am.

I still made time to share the joyful leap from Danny Welbeck on “Facebook” though. I couldn’t deprive you from seeing that one.

On Saturday, yet another trip to London as we play host to Hull City.

See you there.

AKIS KYRIAKOU RIP

Thanks Jimmy for the lovely photo.

Tales From The Woolwich Wanderers

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 6 September 2026.

After a hectic spell of six games – three blue, three red – in ten days, I enjoyed a brief period of rest during the week. However, ahead of Chelsea’s away game at Arsenal, I originally planned to follow my hometown team Frome Town in their quest to advance in the FA Cup on the Saturday at Falmouth Town in deepest Cornwall. However, on the Friday, the thought of covering almost six-hundred miles over the weekend fried my brain. I took the decision to abandon the expedition to Falmouth and thus concentrate on my first love; Chelsea Football Club.

I rested on Saturday but was buoyed by the news that despite conceding an early goal, Dodge came back to claim a 4-2 victory. I experienced no regrets in missing this match. I would be fresh for Sunday.

On the Sunday morning, I spent a small amount of time dipping into the personal histories of the two managers who would be locking horns at The Emirates later in the day. As youngsters, Xabi Alonso and Miguel Arteta played for the same football club, Antiguoko, in San Sebastian, and both dreamed of playing for Real Socidead. Born a few months apart, they went on to cross swords playing for the two teams on Merseyside but never played together at their favoured Real Sociedad. How strange that they would now meet as managers of London’s two giants.

This would be a real test for Alonso’s fledgling team.

I pulled out of my drive at 10.30am and set off for a very rare solo trip to London. PD really suffered with the walk from the stadium down to Highbury & Islington last season, so decided he would not be attending this one. Parky decided against it too. They would be back with me again for the Leeds United League Cup game on the following Wednesday.

I chose the southerly route to London, across Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, and onto the A303, then the M3, joining the slow-moving traffic on the M25, before hitting the more familiar route in via the M4 and the A4. I took a familiar right-turn onto the North End Road, and I was soon parked up where Rylston Road met Dawes Road. It was 2pm.

I again dipped in to “Walham Green” for a quick drink, but my travel plans took a jolt when I saw that Fulham Broadway was closed. So, I hopped on a bus and commenced my trans-London commute at Earl’s Court on the Picadilly Line that quickly connects the football clubs of Chelsea and Arsenal and the boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham and Islington.

The train was full of Arsenal supporters of course.

I could not help noticing a chap who was sat across the way from me. He was around thirty-five, was wearing an Arsenal replica shirt, but also a black baseball cap with Mickey Mouse on the front and a Disneyland Paris logo on the back.

Oh boy.

Too many punchlines, not enough time.

As I hurtled north, Xabi Alonso’s choice of starters came through.

I couldn’t easily work out the formation.

Emi Martinez

Josh Acheampong

Maxence Lacroix

Wesley Fofana

Jorrel Hato

Reece James

Romeo Lavia

Pedro Neto

Cole Palmer

Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro

Maybe it would all make sense once the players lined up at the kick-off.

It only took thirty minutes to reach the rabbit warren that is Arsenal tube. I immediately met up with Emma from Bridgwater in Somerset.

“Going to be a tough one, this.”

We edged up the incline to street level, and the bright sunshine was a contrast to the tube interior. I had recently spotted some evocative photos from an Arsenal vs. Chelsea match at Highbury in August 1971. A few images illustrated the colourful scene on Gillespie Road – rosettes, scarves, supporters – which is where I now stood. I wanted to replicate these, fifty-five years later. I took some photos with my phone. No SLR on this day.

I bumped into Andy and Graham from Glasgow who had flown down to London that morning.

Chelsea supporters streamed out of the tube station sing “Viva Gabriel” and the home supporters seemed to look away.

I could not resist an opportune photo of the first four letters of “Arsenal” near the Danny Fiszman Bridge over the railway lines and I shared it on “Facebook” with my comment:

“Right Up Them.”

I made my way towards the away turnstiles and spotted a large mural on a section of the stadium exterior that stated “Opportunity. Greatness.”

It sounded like a David Brent soundbite from one of the very first scenes of “The Office.”

“If a good man comes to me and says, ‘thank you for the opportunity and continued support in the work-related arena’…

“I can make it come true, a.k.a, to you… “you talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk, vis a vis you have not yet won the European Cup.”

I was inside at bang on 4pm; it had been a relaxing day thus far, the timings were decent, but now it was starting to get a little serious. I aimed for block 20, along the side this season, rather than my usual perch near the corner flag.

Who should be walking up the aisle steps but my good mate Foxy from Dundee, who often shows up, unannounced, at various locations. It was a great pleasure to chat to him for a while.

I then spotted my awayday companion John, and I sidled past a few familiar faces – “going to be a hard game” – in the seventh row and soon realised that my seat, number 591, was right next to the slender gap of around four feet between the away supporters and the home fans.

“Oh great.”

They were going to be in my right earhole all afternoon.

Sigh.

When the Chelsea players trotted over to clap the away supporters, I noticed a chap in the second row of the home section to my right, just a few yards away, applauding the players. This surprised me. It also surprised an agitated Arsenal supporter who was right next to him in the front row. I saw him mouth the words “why are you clapping?”

And I understood this completely. It’s an obscenity to see this in home areas. The guy looked flummoxed and from his body language he appeared to gesture to the entire stadium as if to say, “I am just looking forward to the game.”

I wasn’t convinced and neither was the Arsenal chap.

A while later, I saw this bloke – he looked like a tourist, for sure – getting a selfie with the “Gunnersaurus” Arsenal mascot; blimey, another faux pas.

This bloke was making a right dick of himself.

I had to laugh that many inflatable European Cups had again found their way into the away end and were poised to be hoisted towards the Arsenal support, including that odd little knot of around two-hundred black-clad Ashburton Ultras behind the Clock End goal, at key moments during the afternoon.

Gary arrived and stood next to John. None of us were confident of a result.

The pre-game routines continued.

Arsenal is one of a few London clubs that dig out “London Calling” to play before the teams enter the pitch. I am not sure why they can lay claim to it. Joe Strummer, the lead singer of The Clash was a Chelsea fan by all accounts, and Fulham certainly live by the river.

Arsenal?

Who knows?

There is a river down at Woolwich, mind.

Last season, I started calling Arsenal – among many other, nastier, things – the Woolwich Wanderers and it seemed apt.

I couldn’t believe the abundance of various replica shirts being worn by the home supporters to my right. I know I always mention it a few times each season, but Chelsea – in the main – don’t tend to wear club colours in the same way as many other teams. Arsenal, though, lead the list. Is this the same club that many fans of other clubs heralded as the best dressed in London in the early ‘eighties when a new way of doing everything took hold? It was hard to believe.

I wondered that with all these man-made fibres being concentrated in such a tight proximity, it might represent a fire hazard should they get overly excited and start hugging each other; perish that thought.

As the teams came out from the tunnel, flames flew up into the air in front of us all, and I dreaded one spark heading towards the red hordes to my right.

Thankfully, the moment passed.

With a minute or so before the kick-off, “North London Forever” was bellowed out by the Arsenal devotees, and I refer everyone to my Woolwich comment earlier.

“Not exactly forever, is it?”

With two wins for both teams in the nascent Premier League thus far, the match kicked off with Chelsea, as usual at this venue, playing left-to-right and defending the Clock End.

I took an early photo and joked to John that I had at least one photo when it was 0-0.

Well, the joke was on me.

A floated free-kick from Reece James, central-left, and a little bit of head tennis. The ball fell conveniently to Morgan Rogers on the edge of the box. A fine stab at goal, and the net rippled. David Raya seemed to drop late.

We were 1-0 up.

Just over a minute had been played.

Bloody hell.

Pandemonium in the South Stand.

I may or may not have glanced, fists clenched, towards the nylon and polyester to my right.

I soon spotted that matey boy in the second row was being escorted out by a couple of stewards. What a silly boy. He obviously celebrated the Chelsea goal. At least he left with a selfie of him with the Arsenal mascot.

We could hardly believe it of course, and I suspect many among the three thousand must have thought “we have scored too soon.”

Arsenal, unsurprisingly, came at us, and I attempted to fathom out our formation, but being so low it was not always easy. There was an almighty scramble in our six-yard area, with bodies and limbs crunching against each other, but Martinez – returning to his former home – managed to bravely scoop the ball out for a corner. He went down and a few text messages later in the day would suggest that he had been the recipient of a boot to the head.

Bodies crunching and limbs flailing in opponents’ six-yard boxes seem to be an accepted way of playing the Arsenal way these days, and it isn’t pretty. It reminds me of the slapping that goes on during New Order’s “True Faith” video. Or Reeves and Mortimer with their frying pans.

On twelve minutes, another Arsenal free-kick out on the right, and a low delivery into the box. There was an inevitable scramble, and the ball bobbled in and around the six-yard box for what seemed like an eternity. The ball was eventually prodded in. The goons to my right erupted.

Fackinell.

But then, the TV screen signalled “VAR – possible offside” and there was hope. The goal was indeed chalked off, though you still won’t catch me cheering a VAR decision.

Chelsea, attacking with greater intent than which we are familiar, hit back with a few efforts. A shot from Cole Palmer was straight at Raya. The same player was then involved and played a ball into the far post but missed everyone. There was a blaster from Reece that was well saved.

At the other end, a formidable block by Reece from an Arsenal effort on goal. A fine tackle by Hato at the right moment, too. Attacks were mounting up, with pace, from both sides and the game was pulsating now.

On twenty-five minutes, the ball was played to the lanky German misery Havertz, and we watched as he cut inside and despatched a low strike on goal. Alas, it crept in at the near post.

Bollocks.

The Arsenal lot to my right erupted but nobody caught fire.

I think Havertz thought about trotting over to goad us but decided against it.

So, 1-1, and twenty minutes to the break.

Arsenal’s number seventeen Christos Tzolis – he has adopted Brian Marwood’s haircut in some sort of odd homage to the former Arsenal player – was involved in front of us and looked useful. Again, I was surprised how deep Declan Rice was playing. I still have nightmares thinking of how he turned to us and fist-pumped after a delivering a corner that led to a goal last season.

On forty minutes, we had tons of possession in the Arsenal third, but it all ended up with a tame cross from Pedro Neto into the ‘keeper’s hands.

Just after, a terrible free kick from Reece missed the frame of the goal by some margin.

Neto made use of acres of open space out on our right on a few occasions in the first half, and on forty-six minutes he raced forward to collect a great ball from Joao Pedro, and edged inside, but avoided playing the ball others, and hit the base of the far post. A follow-up cross from Reece was lofted wide.

It was 1-1 at the break. A quick synopsis? Decent going forward, over-run in midfield, our defence often collapsed back too many yards when they attacked us. The noise within the away section hadn’t been great, but the home support was hardly noisy either. It had been a decent game thus far, though.

The second half began, but after just five minutes, Brian Marwood played the ball into the box, Havertz dummied and the ball reached Martin Odegaard. His shot was central and flew past Martinez.

Sigh.

Immediately, the Arsenal lot were noisy as hell.

And this was hell.

Especially being just four feet away.

The stolen-from-Liverpool “Allez allez allez” chant was aired and after that died down, they started “Champions of England – we know what we are.”

I thought to myself :

“How Chelsea 2012.”

Chelsea had to attack, as defensively we didn’t seem assured. Rogers broke away in front of me, and there was a one versus one chase against Gabriel. The Arsenal defender’s sliding tackle was so good that it hurt me to witness it.

Alonso turned to the bench.

On the hour, Pep Chavarria for Hato and Malo Gusto for Lavia.

We now had two right full backs in the midfield duo. Without Moises Caicedo – and now with no Enzo Fernandez – we look rather deficient in that key area.

There was a Palmer shot straight at Raya.

Soon after, an effort from Rogers went high above the bar.

We kept the pressure up; we had much of the ball in the final fifteen minutes, and we kept willing the team on.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Then, at the other end, a fine save from Martinez foiled Bukayo Saka, a diving sprawl to his right.

Another substitution on eighty-one minutes.

Estevao for Neto.

Just after, a break from Palmer but the ball flew over.

This was becoming a pattern.

On eighty-seven minutes, Danny Welbeck replaced Rogers.

Remarkably, I kept saying ton Gary and John “I still fancy a late equaliser. A goal in the first minute. Another in the last.”

On eighty-nine minutes, the tricky Brazilian Estevao fooled his way inside his marker and unleashed a wicked shot at goal. Alas, we witnessed a dramatic leap from Raya and a fingertip push over the bar.

Stunning football, but no goal.

Four minutes of injury time were displayed, and although the referee played five, the late equaliser never came. There were glum faces all around me, and I slowly made my way up the shallow steps and out onto the concourse. It seems ages since the last time that we were victorious here; a 2-0 victory in August 2021. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed down the slope behind the southern side of the stadium. There was time for one last shot as the sun blitzed against the stadium glass. This slope always reminds me of the exit ramp from the old Shed. I can never remember seeing a photo that exists of that part of Stamford Bridge. I wonder why.

Rather than battle the inevitably slow-moving crowds on the Holloway Road, I hid away in a Chinese restaurant for three-quarters of an hour and let the crowds subside. Fed and watered, and suitably rested, I walked down to the tube station at Highbury Corner and made my way back to Rylston Road.

I bought some coffees for the return trip back to Somerset and set off. I was philosophical about the afternoon’s events. We had shown glimpses of “the new Chelsea” but Arsenal is an obstinate beast, and we didn’t quite have enough to get something out of the game.

I drove on and on, reaching home at 11pm.

Next up, Leeds.

See you there.

Tales From The Big Weekend

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Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 30 August 2026.

After our win against Luton Town in the League Cup on the Thursday, Chelsea’s next match was another home game – against Brighton – on the Sunday. But that fixture was only the middle fixture of games on three consecutive days for me.

Either side of the game with those pesky blighters from Brightonia, Frome Town were at Chertsey Town on the Saturday and at home to Bath City on the Bank Holiday Monday. Each one of these games were important, but as they came one after the other, I am breaking Tales protocol and writing about the last game here, rather than splice it together with a later Chelsea match report.

It seems the natural thing to do.

Three games in three days.

The big weekend.

But don’t worry; the Chelsea game is the sizeable filling in the middle.

Here goes, then.

An away game at Chertsey Town was the first on the agenda. They were top of the Southern League Premier South and represented a very difficult assignment for manager Danny Greaves and his troops. I drove up to London with my friends Louise and Steve, and we constantly spoke about Frome’s recent glories, and other points of interest, which invariably featured footballing minutiae from our personal histories. I am amazed Louise stayed awake.

I admitted to them that I was sorely worried about the possibility of Dodge getting zero points from the two games on this momentous weekend. Unbelievably, Steve was uncharacteristically gung-ho about our chances and predicted a win. I was so shocked, I almost crashed my car. Steve is, at times, rather negative – “glass half empty” – about football matters, so this was a real surprise.

We hit some dreadful weather en route, but at around 1.30pm we were huddled around a cosy table in “The Coach & Horses” just a few minutes’ walk from Chertsey’s neat Alwyns Lane ground. A gaggle of Frome’s loyal supporters were at the next table. I had visited it on the corresponding Bank Holiday weekend in 2024; a deserved 1-1 draw that time.

We took our seats in the fine main stand, and I spotted a few Chertsey supporters with Chelsea attire. The ground is just inside the M25, and the rollercoasters of Thorpe Park are visible at the northern end.

With one eye on Monday’s game, the manager made several changes to his starting eleven. It was a tight and combative match from start to finish. On thirty-seven minutes, Frome’s Archie Ferris poked home a cross from close range. It was a deserved lead. The home team enjoyed a dominant spell, but David Duru made it 2-0 just as the home team started to fade. A late consolation goal from Chertsey made the last few minutes incredibly tense, but Frome held on for a very fine victory. The gate was a disappointing 496 which included around forty travelling Frome supporters.

On the drive back to Somerset, I think I had caught Steve’s bug; I had a feeling that we could defeat Bath City on the Monday too.

Saturday evening was spent basking in the glory of Frome’s victory, but my attention soon turned to the Sunday. This would be our new manager’s first league match at Stamford Bridge, and of course there was a frisson of excitement about this.

However – and you might want to look away now, dear reader – I had to solemnly admit to myself that the Frome vs. Bath game on the following day was the biggest of the three. Bath City have experienced a massive fall from grace of late. In 1979/80, in the inaugural season of the Alliance Premier – the first-ever national “fifth division” – they finished second. In that season, Bath City were only three levels below Chelsea.

They have always found themselves in Step 1 or Step 2 of the non-league pyramid, and they have always been a big non-league outfit. However, they now find themselves in Step 3 after relegation last season. While Bath have dropped, Frome have risen and the game would be the first league match between the two clubs since 1906.

Yes, 1906.

One hundred and twenty years.

But first Brighton.

I collected PD at 7am, and Parky at 7.30am. There was the usual early morning McBreakfast at Melksham on the way. These morning matchday football routines are lovely, and they hark back to my childhood when there seemed to be a very clear set of events that I used to follow. I mentioned those joyful Saturday mornings of my youth in the Luton Town match review; “Sesame Steet”, “The Partridge Family”, Sam Leitch on “Grandstand” with his football preview. But before I settled in for a few hours of football, I would be sent down to the village post office to pick up a loaf of bread, and with a small amount of change I would purchase one or maybe two packs of football cards – four per pack – that contained the absolutely inedible bubble gum.

Players from those days lie deep in my memory to this day.

David Wagstaffe – Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Alan Bloor – Stoke City.

Dick Krzywicki – Huddersfield Town.

Allan Hunter – Ipswich Town.

Sunday traffic was light; I dropped the passengers off near “The Eight Bells” at just before 10am. Joe from Virginia would soon join them, along with my good friends Even, Jon, Roy and Hans from Norway. I spun around and parked up on Rylston Road and walked down to Fulham Broadway. For fifteen minutes, I was in agony; my hips were killing me. Those carefree days of me in 1971/72, scampering down to the shop, were a long way away. I’d like to think that the pain I was experiencing was due to those mesmerizing twists and feints that used to confuse opposing full-backs – and myself – during my footballing days, to give it all some sort of footballing credibility, but I suspect that the shooting pain was just due to the passage of time and old age.

I stopped by at the “Walham Green” pub and sat for twenty minutes, nursing a drink. Miraculously, when I stood up, the pain had gone. Behold the therapeutic powers of Fulham Broadway.

On the train down to Putney Bridge, I spotted my Brighton mate Mac in another compartment. We met up on the platform and while he shot off for a quick bite to eat, I joined up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”; the time was about 11.30am.

Unlike the Fulham game, the pub was a lot less crowded, a lot more homely, and a lot quieter. There were familiar faces everywhere. I sat on a table with Mac’s fine mates Barry, Rob and Guy. Brighton have given us a torrid time of late; those recent three away games were absolutely horrific. There was a 1-3 defeat at Stamford Bridge last September too.

I asked Mac how the Brighton faithful will react to Danny Welbeck in Chelsea colours.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Ah lovely.”

Barry shared a photo of some old – literally – Chelsea faces that he had seen on a recent “Facebook” post. He wondered if I recognised any. All of them were in their ‘sixties and ‘seventies.

“Well, I can spot Eccles, but that’s about it. He was the leader of The Shed back in the day, or to be exact, the North Stand.”

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm after having safely smuggled the SLR camera in.

On the pitch, Gary Chivers and Jason Cundy were being asked to share their memories of the recently departed Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates.

I always remember the first time I met Bobby Tambling; it was with Parky and Glenn at a local Wiltshire pub, when Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti were in attendance too. It was in April 2011. Outside in the pub garden, I remember Parky and Bobby chatting away like they were old friends. They were sharing anecdotes about their hip replacements, and Parky could not believe how pleasant Bobby was. That was a Friday evening, and we soon bumped into Bobby walking along Fulham Broadway the following morning before a game and he was all smiles and laughter; a truly wonderful man.

Kick-off time approached.

We checked the team.

New signing Emilio Martinez had made it just in time.

Martinez

Fofana – Lacroix – Colwill

Pedro Neto – Gusto – Lavia – Hato

Palmer – Joao Pedro – Rogers

This looked an odd selection with square pegs in round holes; the pushed-on wing backs and the midfield duo especially.

A Xabi Alonso tifo involving a puny pun was unveiled in The Shed and the teams arrived.

Then, floral tributes with members of the families of Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates – I spotted Bobby’s widow Val – and some heartwarming applause for the two Chelsea legends.

Chelsea attacked The Shed. It looked like many of the visiting support had opted for the white away shirts. Mac wasn’t too happy with the blue with thin white pinstripes of their home kit. In the pub I had asked him about it, narrowly avoiding a mention of the 1983 FA Cup final.

“Not a fan. Prefer stripes. Saw Rangers on TV recently, and their kit looks like ours.”

Chelsea began well. My SLR was at hand on just four minutes to record a brilliant start for the chaps.

The corner from Pedro Neto near Parkyville.

The perfect flick-on from Joao Pedro. He must have been watching highlight reels of Archie Ferris. The ball was blocked on the line by the defender Mats Weiffer and ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen made a hash of grasping the loose ball. The ball dropped nicely.

Alas, the camera missed the nimble flick-in from Romeo Lavia, his first goal for us, but my first reaction was to quickly check the linesman to my right, but his flag was kept down. No infringements.

GET IN.

I captured the celebrations, naughtily taking place in front of the away fans.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

What a start. We continued to play some lovely stuff in the Brighton half.

On fourteen minutes, a throw-in from Jorrel Hato, a headed pass from Joao Pedro to Morgan Rogers, who shuffled past Mario Vuskovic. His square ball was pushed in by Neto on the six-yard line.

Beautiful stuff.

We were purring.

“We’ve got our Chelsea back” sang the crowd.

On twenty-four minutes, Neto chased down Feri Kadioglu and played the ball inside to Joao Pedro, but his shot – on film – was guided just past the left-hand stick.

On twenty-eight minutes, a rare Brighton attack but a hint of things to come. There were three attackers roaming at large down our left, with only one Chelsea shirt in sight.

“Fallen asleep there Chels.”

The resultant cross was thankfully claimed by Martinez.

Brighton then enjoyed a little spell.

However, on thirty-two minutes, there was a lovely interchange of play between Hato and Rogers – quick feet to release the ball – and this allowed Hato to race up the left. He won the footrace with Wieffer and crossed low. As the ball flew off Joao Pedro’s boot, I clicked.

GOAL!

This made up for the earlier miss.

I always remember Mac’s reaction to us signing Joao Pedro.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

I wondered, briefly, what his thoughts were as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Mac Lads.

This goal, oddly, brought back memories of Gary Chivers’ goal versus Newcastle United in October 1980. That one came from a rapid move down the left too. And, also oddly, Clive – a few seats along – thought the same. The ball travelled in different parts of the pitch in 2026, but it had the same feel as the goal from forty-six years ago.

Three-up and hinting at more, my mind wandered, far too quickly for my liking.

“Two wins in two games. Will this team surprise us all, gel ridiculously quickly and mount a serious challenge for the title?”

Yeah, I know.

Throughout all this attacking wizardry, Cole Palmer had been a little quiet. He gave away possession on a couple of occasions early on and didn’t dominate in the way he can.

On thirty-five minutes, Neto missed his challenge, allowing Diego Gomez in on goal. His shot was parried by Martinez – on film – but Malick Yalcouye slammed a shot in off the far post.

Bollocks.

On forty-one minutes, Rogers rifled a shot from distance just past the post. Gomez, at the Matthew Harding, headed wide.

At the break, I had no complaints, apart from the noise and the atmosphere.

It was darned quiet.

At half-time, a message from Mac.

“Exactly as I saw this going.”

The game recommenced, and Brighton managed to have a bigger share of the game. However, three minutes in, Martinez pumped a long first-time ball forward, enabling Joao Pedro to slalom his way forward – pictured – but he seemed to take one touch too many and his run was blocked.

On fifty-five minutes, a Brighton free-kick and a header at the back stick from Gomez that glided past the other post.

I was waiting for the net to bulge.

Phew.

A minute later, we went wide of the far post, then a minute after that Rogers walloped a ball into the six-yard box but Palmer uncharacteristically volleyed over the bar.

Then a couple of Brighton efforts, and a fine Martinez save. Sadly, from the resulting corner, Yalcouye played a ball in to Pascal Gross whose attempted pass to a teammate flew in off Joao Pedro’s leg.

There was still half-an-hour to go, and it was getting nervy. It felt that we were sitting back way too much. At 3-2, this was a different game completely.

On sixty-four minutes, Maxim De Cuyper headed wide of the far post.

Martinez saved well down low from Olivier Boscagli.

This was getting even more edgy.

On sixty-eight minutes, Xabi Alonso made some changes.

Josh Acheampong for Fofana.

Moises Caicedo for Neto.

Reece James for Lavia.

It meant that Gusto was pushed out wide.

The crowd responded with a loud, and much needed chant.

“CAREFREE.”

On seventy-two minutes, Pep Chavarria took over from Colwill.

Two minutes later, a throw-in from Gusto, a neat lay-off from Joao Pedro and Palmer raced forward. He ate up the yards and with calm efficiency he swept the ball in at the far post.

What a lovely strike.

Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.

That’s better.

More noise.

“PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN OLE, OLE.”

I said to Alan : “to be honest he has been 5/10 until now.”

Brighton continued to attack and carve out chances. One effort was slashed wide from a corner.

Sadly, Caicedo had to be replaced by Valentin Barco on eighty-two minutes.

Towards the end of the game, my fellow occupants in The Sleepy Hollow – Alan, Clive, PD – departed and so it was only me that witnessed the last goal of the game on ninety-five minutes. Another long throw, the ball was headed on, and a free header for Gross.

Thankfully, that was it.

The whistle blew soon after the re-start.

Phew.

There was some sort of gallows humour on the way out.

“3-2, now 4-3…I guess we will win 5-4 at Arsenal.”

No, don’t put any money on it.

It had been a game that started so well with lots off attacking verve, but one that soon became a roller-coaster ride like those experienced by thousands at Thorpe Park.

But Alonso will learn fast and make the right changes.

Won’t he?

Let’s hope so,

I made my way back to collect PD and Parky and who should I see talking to three friends on the Fulham Road?

Eccles.

I messaged Barry to tell him.

I reached home at around 6.45pm with another game heavily on my mind.

The plan was to meet up with a few close friends in the FTFC clubhouse at around 1pm on Bank Holiday Monday. I have a digital season ticket at Frome, and until this day, the scanning process had not worked. My old Oakfield Road School teammate Steve – manning the gate with his father Maurice – was surprised as I was when there was a lovely big green “tick” on his scanner. I took that as a positive sign.

There were Bath fans in early at Badgers Hill, and it soon became apparent that we would be witnessing the largest ever away following seen at Frome Town in decades and decades. I had spoken to a director a fortnight earlier and they had budgeted for an attendance of 1,000, expected 1,200, but I – and others – was hoping for 1,500 at least.

I soon met up with Louise, Steve, Francis, Tom and Glenn. We could not believe how many away fans were in. They began to cluster as one black mass in The Cowshed to our right. The weather had been favourable; there were grey skies in the morning – perhaps deterring many from travelling too far on this day’s holiday and enticing them to the match instead – but as from midday there were blue skies overhead.

As game time approached, Badgers Hill looked an absolute picture.

All stands were full; there were still spectators queuing at the turnstiles and a buzz of huge anticipation hung in the air.

The visitors had featured heavily in the local news of late; a consortium that included Tears For Fears’ Curt Smith were about to swell the coffers of the club to the quite amazing tune of £6M.

And here they were visiting little old Frome for the first time in a league game since 1906.

The teams strode onto the pitch to the tune of “A Town Called Malice” and we girded our loins.

The first half was a relatively mundane affair, and Frome Town had to rely on the heroics of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips to keep the score tied. With five minutes to the break, the last of the spectators eventually made their way in. We all played “guess the gate” and the consensus was around 1,700.

The second half began with the red shirts attacking us in the club end.

Eventually, the home support found our voices.

I bellowed out –

“COME ON YOU” – but stopped at saying the word “reds.”

I just can’t do it.

There were a few chances for both teams. Bath wasted a golden one-on-one; the chance of the match.

Frome manager Danny Greaves made some changes.

Three substitutions on sixty-four minutes.

Our play improved.

“AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY.”

Two more substitutions followed on eighty minutes.

Just after, a Warren Maidment throw-in (pictured), a scramble, and substitute George Dowling, with his first touch of the game, rifled the ball in via a deflection.

GET IN.

He had only been on the pitch for less than twenty seconds.

The home team held on, and the away fans sloped back to Twerton, Weston, Lansdown, Odd Down, Bathampton and Whiteway.

The gate was announced as 2,051.

We had smiles as large as Cley Hill, a local landmark that can be spotted on the horizon if you know where to look.

We basked in the glory some more.

I was worried about winning a solitary point in this toughest of weekends, but Frome Town had won six.

And good old Chelsea had picked up three too.

Fackinell.

Three wins out of three.

What a blinkin’ glorious weekend.

And here’s to many more.

See you at Arsenal

Game One : Chertsey Town vs. Frome Town

Game Two : Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion

Game Three : Frome Town vs. Bath City

Tales From The Fast Show

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Chelsea vs. Luton Town : 27 August 2026.

Xabi Alonso’s first competitive game was behind him, and his first competitive game at Stamford Bridge was a League Cup encounter with Luton Town.

When the draw was made a few weeks ago, I wasn’t completely convinced that I would attend. This first week of the football season was going to be busy enough, with three Frome Town games and two Chelsea games from Saturday 22 August through to Monday 31 August; that’s five games in ten days. Did I really want to squeeze in another?

One of my main aims this season is to see if I can complete my fifth consecutive season of complete league fixtures; a run of 190 games. It would be quite some achievement and something that I would never ever have contemplated doing way back in my formative Chelsea years. Was I that fussed about missing an early League Cup game? Apparently not. After all, I have chosen to miss the occasional home game – invariably midweek – in past seasons, so one more game would not matter too much in the grand scheme of things.

Our new manager’s first home game was the friendly against Real Sociedad a couple of weeks ago, and on that day, Frome Town were at Havant & Waterlooville, aiming for a third consecutive league win. There was absolutely no way that I was missing that one.

However, as I thought about it, and as the decent price of £29 was announced, I threw caution to the wind and bought my ticket for the Luton tie. PD and Parky were keen to go too.

In the end, it would be rude not to.

Count me in.

It would now be a run of six games in ten days.

Back with a bang, eh?

Of course, there was a pre-season that centered on Australia and South-East Asia in July to kick things off for Alonso. I was certainly not tempted with that, despite gorgeous memories of Thailand and Malaysia in 2011, China in 2017 and Australia in 2018, but I saw the highlights of a few of those matches. Our first game of Alonso’s reign was against Western Sydney Warriors on 28 July; a match that ended 6-4 to Chelsea. I remember glancing at some of the unfamiliar names in our squad that night and some looked like particularly difficult selections of letters in a game of Scrabble.

Since those early days of 2026/27, Alonso has added to his squad. We have opted for a couple of old hands to add experience to the legion of “youngsters with potential” after the realisation that teams don’t “win with kids” too often became all too apparent last season. The acquisition of our perennial nemesis Danny Welbeck – I’ve lost count of the goals he nabbed for Brighton against us – was well received by me. However, our club’s desire to add Jordan Henderson to the mix was hard for me to swallow. I was aghast when he was named in the England squad in the US, and I could hardly believe that he was to join us at Chelsea. At the time it boiled down to Henderson, ex-Liverpool, or Xhaka, ex-Arsenal; neither to my taste. But then people spoke of Henderson’s role in helping to instil good practices in the squad environment and his leadership qualities.

Maybe he will turn out to be a Captain Mainwaring rather than a Corporal Sponge in the new army of players at Stamford Bridge this season.

We wondered if he might be involved against Luton.

At work the day after the Fulham game, several colleagues mentioned to me that they had enjoyed the match. This surprised me in a way. When I met up with the lads after the match on Monday night I had quickly judged the game as being 6/10, since it contained a mixture of performances. I think it was too close a result for me to enjoy it more and score it higher. Yet the neutrals had enjoyed the end-to-end passages of play, and why not? Perhaps I was being too harsh.

I worked another 6am to 2pm shift, but the commute up to my secondary place of work was hit by delays on the M4. On the raised section of this road at around Brentford’s stadium, I glanced at the shining arch of Wembley (a grim destination for us these days) six miles to the north and I also managed to spot the thin metallic needle of the Crystal Palace TV transmitter on the rise of high land around twelve miles to the south-east; the first-time that I had ever spotted it. This stunned me. I have seen over nine-hundred games at Stamford Bridge (and this means I surely must have visited London at least a thousand times in my life) yet I had not spied that spire ever before from the M4. It just goes to show that London never stops surprising me.

What with the delays, I didn’t drop the boys off outside “The Wolfpack” until 5pm. I revisited “Koka” again, then amazed myself by bumping into many Chelsea friends on the short walk down the North End Road. I then met up with PD, Parky, Jimmy the Greek and Salisbury Steve at “Tommy Tucker.”

We saw the team; Mike Penders, Valentin Barco and Danny Welbeck were debuting.

“Where do you think you are going, Sponge?”

Jordan Henderson wasn’t even on the bench. Perhaps he would be preparing the half-time energy drinks, checking the towels, or other light duties.

Rain was threatening with dark clouds overhead, and I only stayed a short while. There were a couple of photos on the walk to The Bridge (thanks for the photo, Jimmy; a rare snap taken by someone other than little old me and shared herein) and I was inside Stamford Bridge at just after 7pm. My phone would have to suffice for photos again and I apologise now.

Despite the cheap price of tickets, there were gaps everywhere. With around 4,500 Luton supporters in The Shed – to the west side – Parky was now repositioned alongside PD, and I was next to Alan.

With ten minutes to kick-off, “Our House” was played and I smiled. I was glad that I chose to attend this one.

Many of the away supporters were bedecked in the orange home shirt and I liked this flash of colour. Their kit has changed quite often over the years, and when we played them at Wembley in 1994, their first-choice kit was white shirts and light blue socks for some reason. I always like the orange and black combo.

At kick-off, many seats around us were unused.

We attacked The Shed.

First thoughts; four at the back this time?

Yes, it seemed so.

Mike Penders

Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Pep Chavarria

Reece James – Valentin Barco

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Danny Welbeck

Former Chelsea youth Kasey Palmer was in the Luton team.

It was all Chelsea for the first five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. There were a couple of rare forays into our half for Luton early on – enthusiastically cheered by the Hatters’ support – but they did not threaten at all. They sat deep, unsurprisingly.

Nerdspeak : “Luton had a low block.”

Immediately, we were passing quicker, moving quicker, finding gaps quicker. I immediately felt happier watching this style of football.

It was still Chelsea, but faster.

The bright ginger hair of Barco seemed to make him stand out and I could not help concentrating on our young Argentinian starlet. He immediately looked neat and purposeful.

After around ten minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand caused the steel of the East Stand and the sand brickwork of the hotel above the stand to obtain a surreal terracotta blush. The photo I took of the Chelsea lion has not been altered; it really was that orange. It gave the Stamford Bridge stadium an ethereal glow.

The orange Luton jerseys, on the pitch and in The Shed, the orange tint to the surroundings, and the deep ginger mop on Barco’s head. It was all in synch.

On eleven minutes, a sublime shimmy and run from Cole Palmer, following a pass from Estevao, squeezed in among combatants in the Luton box, thrilled us all but his shot was blocked by the ‘keeper Josh Keeley, and his follow-up effort was saved too.

From the corner, Palmer’s shot went wide. Malo Gusto shot wildly over, and then Welbeck headed at Keeley from close range.

On eighteen minutes, a well-struck free kick from Reece James was saved very well by the Luton ‘keeper, at full stretch to his left.

This was nice stuff from Chelsea. We were playing with ease, and it all looked very smooth. Gone was the reticence of previous eras in the recent past. There were purrs of delight among the SW6 loyalists.

Thankfully, Stamford Bridge had filled considerably but there were still tons of empty seats. I had seen that 49,000 had attended the Tottenham vs. Charlton game the previous night in the same competition; an impressive number. I wondered if we might get up to 35,000; I suspected not.

Barco continued to impress. He kept the ball moving but not in the ponderous way of Jorginho. His touch was light, and he played passes with an unerring calmness, and with pin-point accuracy. I bizarrely spotted the likeness to Danny Bonadeuce of “The Partridge Family” from those joyful Saturday mornings of my youth; “Sesame Steet”, “The Partridge Family”, Sam Leitch on “Grandstand” with his football preview.

I had just mentioned to Alan, who lives close to the Crystal Palace mast, that the visitors had not enjoyed a single effort on Penders’ goal, when a minute or so later, a shot came in from an angle down below us but was blocked.

On thirty-eight minutes, Barco slid a fine ball to meet a beautifully timed run into the box from Estevao, just beating the offside line, and this resulted in a shot that was whipped low across the goal, but which went wide of the far post.

It was hard to believe that we had not scored in this half of football. But there were no catcalls, nor boos. We could all see that this was an improvement in a playing style; the quality of opposition notwithstanding.

Dear reader : it was such a bloody relief.

In the first portion of the half, Estevao and Palmer had looked sensational, combining well, and full of tricks. Again, lovely to witness.

I had mentioned to Alan earlier : “It’s the Estevao show tonight, mate” and, at that very moment, he double-touched the ball as he stumbled and it went out for a goal-kick. I need to learn when to keep my gob shut.

In the last few five minutes of the half, however, I whispered to Alan “we have plateaued a bit.” We had lost a little zip of energy. Passes were taking a little longer to be made.

With that, a Luton free-kick, and a header from Hakeem Odoffin was on target but Penders easily claimed it.

On forty-four minutes, Estevao was the creator again as he set up Morgan Rogers, otherwise relatively quiet, but his volley smacked against the bar.

Nice interplay between Chavarria and Rogers set up Palmer, but another blocked shot.

It had been a night, thus far, of almost total domination, but it was 0-0 as the half came to an end. Lacroix had impressed me; physically strong, pacey, and happy to make decisions quickly. Alongside him, Josh continued to look a fine prospect.

At the break, I messaged some pals in the US :

“The players look like they know what they need to do. Bit of a radical approach to be honest.”

Five minutes into the second period, Estevao played a decisive pass that allowed the overlapping Gusto – our least-effective player thus far – to punch a super cross over and onto the head of a leaping Welbeck.

GOAL.

A trademark Welbeck goal.

Fantastic.

How he loved celebrating that one.

Alan looked at me.

I looked at him.

We both fidgeted with our glasses, Eric Morecambe-style.

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Lovely stuff.

We could relax, or could we?

Possibly not. A Luton equaliser, however unlikely, might mean that we would go into penalties right after the final whistle.

Barco continued his fine debut; receiving, a touch, a pass, on target, always. He reminded me of the light-footed Billy Gilmour with his economy of movement.

On the hour, Welbeck’s shot rolled just wide of the far post. Four minutes later, great shape from Palmer, but his beautifully struck shot skimmed the very top of the crossbar.

Three minutes later, a rare effort on Penders’ goal, a low drive from the other Palmer, but just wide.

Throughout this game, the atmosphere had not been too special. The away fans were hardly a wall of noise, but they kept producing a prime piece of glottal-stop English.

“Come on Lu’on, Come on Lu’on.”

They also quaintly sang of their rivals not as bastards or worse, but as just “Hornets.”

Bless.

Chelsea were quiet.

Shocker.

On sixty-seven minutes, some substitutions.

Jorrel Hato for Gusto.

Romeo Lavia for James.

Pedro Neto for Rogers.

On seventy-three minutes another.

Joao Pedro for Welbeck.

Or rather on seventy-four minutes; our punishment as Welbeck did not sprint off the pitch.

With ten minutes to go, Barco surprisingly lost the ball but soon wrestled the ball back and guided the ball to Palmer, who passed to Estevao outside. A shimmy, a shot at goal, but the unlucky Odoffin was in the way and could not divert the ball from going in.

Chelsea 2 Luton Town 0.

Phew.

Just after, Jamie Gittens replaced Steve-O.

Late on, Barco played the ball over to Acheampong but his header dropped just wide of the far post.

On ninety-minutes, a fine phase of possession football in and around their box, and an eventual shot from Joao Pedro that was blocked.

Then a moment later, a strong run from Gittens down below me but he smacked the post with a firm drive.

We should have won 5-0 really.

But I enjoyed this game. I saw glimpses of a fine future.

So, we play Leeds United at home in the next round, and a game that will be our eighth consecutive match in London. Just like Luton, we seem to avoid Leeds for years and years, but then play them again and again.

I think the atmosphere will be better for that one.

I met up with Parky and PD outside “The Mitre” at 9.45pm, and – an earlier one on this occasion – I was home at 12.30am exactly. It had been a smashing night of football.

Next up, another home match; Brighton on Sunday at 2pm.

I will see you there.

DAVE McCROSSEN.

Before the photos, a plug for my friend Dave McCrossen and his newly published tome, which covers last season’s slog, and is available on Amazon via book or Kindle. I have just bought my copy, and it promises to be a good read.

Us Chelsea matchday-going bloggers have to look after each other; there are only two of us.

Tales From A Home Away From Home

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 24 August 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shouldn’t have worried about a thing.

Because every little thing was going to be alright.

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

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

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

1905 : Chelsea were formed.

1965 : I was born.

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

I liked that.

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

“It’s up for grabs now.”

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

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

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

It was just after 7pm.

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

Robert Sanchez

Levi Colwill – Maxence Lacroix – Josh Acheampong

Malo Gusto – Reece James – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Cole Palmer – Joao Pedro – Morgan Rogers

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

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

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

“Where’s Caicedo?”

“Not sure about the defence”

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“HAVE BEEN. WILL BE. ALWAYS ORIGINAl.”

Um, what?

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

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

We stood and waited.

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

There was applause even before the referee blew his whistle.

We have lost some special people over the summer.

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

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

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

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

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

RIP.

Eight o’clock approached.

First thoughts?

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

“Be even better with white socks, Gal.”

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

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

Fackinell.

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

Yes, I was back.

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

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

We were both back.

And so were Chelsea.

This was a dream start down by the river.

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

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

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

More songs.

“It’s Salomon!”

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

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

This was, mainly, promising stuff.

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

Gary : “We almost scored too quick.”

Sanchez blocked a shot that was hit straight at him.

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

Fackinell.

They had tied it at 1-1.

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

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

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

Yep, beaten at the near post.

Bloody hell, Sanchez.

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

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

Another break and another shot followed.

“COME ON CHELS.”

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

Another shot from the home team.

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

Me : They have.”

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

GET IN.

The payers celebrated and the Chelsea crowd too.

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

Palmer whistled a shot narrowly past the post.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.”

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

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

“This could end up 3-3, Gal.”

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

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

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

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

Some turned out to be OK.

“OH XABI ALONSO. OH XABI ALONSO.”

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

3-2.

Blimey.

On sixty-five minutes, Alonso made some subs.

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

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

I quickly nailed my colours to the wall.

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

There were many more cheers than jeers.

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

More substitutions followed.

76 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gusto.

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

83 minutes : Estevao for Palmer.

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

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

Next up, the trips to London continue.

Thursday : Chelsea vs. Luton Town.

Saturday : Chertsey Town vs, Frome Town.

Sunday : Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.

I will see some of you somewhere.

Walking Ahead To Season 2026/27

Fulham vs. Chelsea

Kevin Keegan RIP

The First Nine Games Of My Season

Radstock Town vs. Frome Town

Buckland Athletic vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Worthing

Frome Town vs. Salisbury

Frome Town vs. Weymouth

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town

Frome Town vs. Evesham United

Havant And Waterlooville vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Gosport Borough

Tales From A Weary End To The Season

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13

Sunderland vs. Chelsea : 24 May 2026.

“World champions but.”

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

“Chelsea are rubbish, man.”

“Hadaway, they are World Champions but.”

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

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

Two magpies, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This trick didn’t work.

It won.

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

So, they were confused what to do.

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

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

“Another Budvar please, barman.”

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

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

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

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

It had been a splendid night.

On the Saturday morning, we rested well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last matchday of season 2025/26 soon arrived.

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

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

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

“We must stop meeting like this.”

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

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

Sadly, we ran out of time to do either.

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

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

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

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

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

A kind local took a team photo.

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

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

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

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

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

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – Caicedo – Fernandez – Cucurella

Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

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

“Wise man say…”

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

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

“Must be getting old.”

Lance was impressed with the tumultuous noise.

“Imagine if Stamford Bridge was like this each game”

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

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

“Move for each other!”

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

And it had been deeply disappointing.

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

Fackinell.

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

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

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

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

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

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Was the comeback on? We all hoped so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To repeat, for the millionth time :

“Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.”

Good times and bad.

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

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

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

On eighty-five minutes, two substitutions were made.

Liam Delap for Moises Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Malo Gusto.

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

Ugh.

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

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

And perhaps it had.

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

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

There would be no UEFA competition for us next season.

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

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

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

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

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

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

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

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

More numbers.

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

CHELSEA 2015/16

Won 12

Drew 14

Lost 12

50 Points.

CHELSEA 2025/26

Won 14

Drew 10

Lost 14

52 Points.

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

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

“World champions, but.”

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

See you in August.