Tales From An Evening Of Early Goals And Heartache

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Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain : 17 March 2026.

On the drive up to London with Paul and Parks, I mentioned how often those of us in the Chelsea support had mentioned the term “early goal” in the build-up to this game.

“I’d like a tenner for every time one of us has used that phrase.”

For although I was not expecting us to recover from those horrific last twenty minutes at Parc des Princes the previous Wednesday, I cannot lie and say I didn’t momentarily daydream about it.

At work during the day – another 4.30am alarm call, another 6am to 2pm shift – I self-deprecatingly called this return leg “The Miracle Of Stamford Bridge” and awaited the response from co-workers. They weren’t biting. They knew it was a lost cause too.

But that early goal kept me keen.

Steve, Salisbury: “you never know, we get an early goal, and we might get some momentum going.”

Glenn, Frome: “an early goal and it’s game-on.”

Rich, Edinburgh: “we score an early goal, I fancy us.”

Steve, Philadelphia: “we get an early goal, and we are right back in it.”

That’ll be forty-quid please. Thanks.

But I also came up with another title that could, sadly, fit the day’s events. This wasn’t St. Valentine’s Day in Chicago in 1929, but after the game is ended, it could become known as the St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.

Gulp.

As soon as I had left Melksham, I told my two passengers of a tale of woe that I had suffered on the Monday. I have some holiday to use up and so highlighted a stay in Falmouth to take in Frome Town’s fixture in one week’s time, on Tuesday 24 March. On the Sunday after the Newcastle game, I booked up a two-night stay at a nice B&B for just £100. I was looking forward to this; a little stay away for myself. However, on Monday evening I received a rather concerned call from the guest house, enquiring when I would be arriving. It turned out that I booked that night, rather than the two nights of the following week. And the booking was unable to be transferred. Suffice to say, the two lads were full of empathy and commiserations. And if you believe that…

While Paul and Parky spent a few hours in the pub, I parked up and trotted down to Fulham Broadway, and squeezed myself in at “Zia Lucia”, a pizza restaurant that I had not tried before. It was fully booked from 6pm, but I arrived at just the right time. The food was tasty. It kept me from thinking too much about the football.

I decided to spend an hour or so out on the Fulham Road, taking in the pre-match atmosphere and the sights and sounds that accompany a European night at Stamford Bridge. I bumped into a few mates along the way. None of us were remotely confident. I arrived at the main gates just as two PSG coaches arrived and slowly made their way over to the East Stand. One of the coaches was fully liveried. Back in New Jersey in the summer on the way to Meadowlands, our Uber had to pull over and let the PSG team coach fly past. A similar 3-0 win on this night in deepest SW6? Highly unlikely.

I continued snapping away; the rather old-fashioned wooden matchday board, the half-and-half scarf sellers, The Butcher’s Hook where the club was formed in 1905, the “CFC LDN” branding that seems to upset so many, the forecourt, the fans.

This would be the ninth time that I would see PSG face Chelsea. This game was the fifth time at Stamford Bridge, plus there were two visits to Parc des Princes – in 2004 and 2014 – plus three matches in the USA; at Yankee Stadium in 2012, in Charlotte in 2015 and in New Jersey last summer, the final game of 2024/25.

In European competitions, they have caused us some grief for sure.

We triumphed in 2004/5 and 2013/14 but were beaten in 2014/15 and 2015/16.

PSG are certainly, along with Barcelona, one of our new European rivals.

I am no fan of the extended “league” format of the current competition, but when I watched the first leg at Glenn’s flat the previous Wednesday, here was a game that at last felt important. It had that dramatic edge to it. There were copious amounts of noise generated by the home fans, and I even heard our support gamely trying to respond.

It turned out to be a great spectacle. And we played so well until “you-know-when”. It felt like a proper cup tie. Despite those three late goals that hurt us all so badly, I felt rejuvenated in seeing a knock-out UEFA game with two teams playing good football and with that added drama of everything hinging on just two games. I wished that every UEFA tie was like this.

Outside Stamford Bridge on a mild night, there were foreign voices everywhere; not just French, but voices from all over Europe. One young chap – aged about twenty, maybe from The Netherlands from his accent – asked a souvenir stall owner “where is the Chelsea ground?” and he was only thirty yards from the entrance to the West Stand.

I rolled my eyes.

You would think the drift of people heading to the ground would have been evidence enough.

I was in early at 7pm, an hour to go. There had been an odd interchange at the security check; one chap saw my SLR camera but waved me in. As I took my place inside The Sleepy Hollow, only a few spectators were in as early as me. Gary was one of them. Like me he had stumped up £72 for this game; the highest that I had ever paid for a ticket at Chelsea. The price initially shocked me. But what choice did I have?

“It’s what I do.”

PD arrived and he told me he overheard two blokes talking about “an early goal” on the tube journey up from Putney Bridge.

We then shared a laugh ourselves.

“Imagine us mate. On seventy-five minutes. Still waiting for that early goal.”

The stadium slowly filled. I didn’t expect every seat to be occupied. I had seen that some tickets were trying to be shifted leading up to the game. The PSG lot, who had massed up along the Fulham Road before marching together according to a mate – “well organised, no aggro” – were surprisingly quiet. There was not a peep from them. Mind you, it is hard to compete with pounding dance music.

From the segregation lines, it looked like 2,500 of them.

Just after 7.45pm, a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding. This initiated a response, a volley of noise, from them, and it was “game on.”

Lovely.

The stadium grew noisier.

“Our House” was played. This is a great recent addition to our match-day.

The atmosphere was building nicely.

Paul and I shared another laugh. Fast forward to our drive home.

“Traffic’s quiet mate.”

“That’s because 20,000 spectators left an hour ago.”

It was time to check our starting eleven. What a terrible loss Reece James would be.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

The CL flag, the flames, the fireworks, the “2025 World Cup” crowd-surfer, the flags in The Shed, the anthem.

I looked around. Yes, there were empty seats. But the atmosphere seemed to be at decent levels. The PSG ultras, some bare-skinned, seemed up for it now. I think they had been conserving their energies until kick-off. Very wise.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

PSG in red / red / red.

PSG won the toss and forced us to attack the Matthew Harding in the first period.

The match began.

My God the noise from us was incredible. Considering that many of our rank-and-file supporters plus a large amount of our younger element had been either priced out of this one or, bluntly, didn’t fancy it, there had been a real concern from me that we would be left with the geriatrics – thinks about raising hand, but decides that can’t be me – who are less likely to holler support, and the timid middle classes and the tourists who wouldn’t know a lump of celery from a bunch of rocket.

But this was very heartening stuff indeed. It showed that the support hadn’t given up. It showed that on our day we could get behind the team. The difference between this cacophony of noise and the morgue-like atmosphere of Saturday’s game with Newcastle was simply incredible.

In those opening minutes, it seemed like that we had collectively remembered the noise in Paris and had said

“This is our house. Now it’s our turn.”

Song after song rattled out of the Matthew Harding and The Shed; Stamford Bridge came alive.

“Carefree – Wherever You May Be.”

“And It’s Super Chelsea.”

“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”

And then, bloody hell, a break down their left, our right, instigated by a long punt from their ‘keeper Matvey Safonov. Their strong striker, whose name is difficult to spell let alone pronounce, ably collected the ball, and turned past our defender as easy as you like. His shot was calmly rolled past Sanchez at the far post.

Six minutes had gone.

Bollocks.

There was that early fucking goal.

Fuck you Kyhyvistcha Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylia.

I wanted to cry. Not only because we had conceded so early, but I knew the atmosphere would instantly deteriorate. Damn it. And damn Reece James’ injury.

Sigh.

There was a smattering of chances from us in the immediate period after the goal from Palmer, Joao Pedro, Enzo and Neto

But the aggregate score, now, was 2-6.

Four goals? Nah.

Fourteen minutes were on the clock. Two very-late arrivals sat between PD and me. A move down their right caused me instant angst. Achraf Hakimi advanced, easily, and passed to Bradley Barcola, easily. He was, dear reader, unmarked. I was right behind the shot that he neatly volleyed into Sanchez’ goal. The two lads next to me had only been in their seats for five seconds.

Fackinell.

So, 0-2 down on the night and 2-7 on aggregate.

I was numb.

PD summed it up: “two attacks, two goals.”

I continued the grim news : “Christ, they have scored five goals against us in thirty minutes.”

The game, of course, continued. We couldn’t exactly hold up any white flags.

On twenty-two minutes, a cross from Palmer to Joao Pedro and a header that I thought was in. It was glanced just wide.

PSG’s away support was cheering every touch of the ball as a move continued on, and on, and on. There was constant noise from them. I couldn’t remember how their fans had performed in 2005, nor 2014, nor 2015, nor 2016, but their support was impressive. It wasn’t always very loud, but it never stopped.

On thirty-one minutes, Kvaratsarsetskhekliaylair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch scored but he always looked like being offside.

VAR got it right.

Anyway, his name is always bloody offside.

On thirty-four minutes, I found myself clapping – briefly – a magnificent ball out from a PSG defender to a player on the left touchline. It was a magnificent pass, hit with pace, on the volley, and with a beautiful fade that meant the ball dropped perfectly to his teammate’s feet.

“What a ball, PD.”

On thirty-five minutes, a lovely piece of opportunism from Joao Pedro almost paid off as he ran onto a long ball from Sanchez but was forced wide and Safonov saved. The Russian ‘keeper, to my eyes, didn’t look particularly happy all night and seemed to flap at our corners.

The two late arrivals left before the break and never returned.

PSG continued to impress.

“We’re losing all the battles all over the pitch, PD.”

The first half finished with, in the circumstances, a decent spell of “to-and-fro” from both teams. A fine save from Safonov from a Palmer effort, an equally good save from Sanchez from Barcola at the near post after a break down the right with Palmer in chase, then another save from Safonov after a Chalobah header.

It helped lessen the pain. Kinda.

There were boos at half-time.

There was nice appreciative applause for Josh Acheampong as he replaced Sarr at the break.

The away fans continued to sing, and they provided quite a varied songbook, one of which seemed to go on for ages, and sounded like an old French folk song; it sounded like it could easily have been warbled by Edith Piaf in a Parisien nightclub in the 1930’s.

On fifty-five minutes, Joao Pedro’s curler was just wide. He had been our best player on the night and was the only player who had genuinely looked like scoring thus far.

Still the PSG ultras sang. I had this horrible feeling that one or two of the melodies would be rattling around my head in the morning. Nor for the first time, the chorus from Bonnie Tyler’s “It’s A Heartache” had been sampled in one of a European team’s songs.

Heartache was about bloody right.

On the hour, a triple substitution.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Alejandro Garnacho for Palmer.

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

These substitutions seemed crazy at the time, but – well, damage limitation, managing resources et al.

Alas, on sixty-two minutes, a shot from outside the area was blocked but Senny Mayulu latched on to the ball and found the net and with that, hundreds exited.

Chelsea 0 PSG 3.

We were 2-8 down.

“God, PD – there’s half-an-hour to go.”

I found myself, legs crossed, turned away from the game. I simply found it hard to watch.

The PSG ultras, had the same idea, but they did their version of “The Poznan.”

They were far happier.

This was horrible.

The rest of the match was a blur really.

Garnacho had a couple of “Groundhog Day” efforts, then on the third run, he bizarrely chose to go wide and hit the ball with his very-unfavoured left peg. One effort came after a nicely “gung-ho” dribble from Chalobah from deep.

“God, PD – there’s still twenty to go.”

On seventy-one minutes, Rosenior replaced Cucurella with Tosin.

“Fuck me, he must have a sense of humour.”

Tosin, I ask you.

When Kvaratskhelia, the star man, was substituted soon after, a few Chelsea supporters clapped, me included. He had been excellent all night.

Caicedo, out of sorts for a while now, dragged a shot wide, and there was an effort from Delap, who at least looked lively.

The saddest moment of all was the sight of Our Trev being stretchered off and we finished with only ten on the pitch. I absolutely sensed that with the Chalobah withdrawal, PSG collectively decided not to inflict any more pain on us and didn’t go for any more goals.

Even the referee Slavko Vincic felt sorry for us and blew up exactly on 90 minutes.

I have not seen that ever before.

What a terrible night.

At the final whistle, I shook hands with a few loyalists.

“See you at Everton.”

Interestingly – or not – the gate on a very reliable website immediately after the game gave the attendance as 35,811 but Chelsea gave it as 37,242. I wonder who to believe?

I walked back to the car, disconsolate.

On the way home, I grumbled to PD.

“Well, not one single away trip in Europe for me this season. And I can’t even book two nights in bloody Falmouth correctly.”

I reached home at about 1.30am.

The St. Patrick’s Day Massacre was about right.

Tales From The Anniversary Game

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 14 March 2026.

I was in early for the match with Newcastle United. I had left the chaps in the pub and fancied a little mooch around the stadium prior to entering. It was a sunny afternoon, with an occasional chill to the air.

As I approached my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, I heard my name being called. I spotted Joe, who is Hersham Bob’s son, and comes to occasional matches at The Bridge. Hersham Bob wasn’t going to be at this one, instead giving his ticket to Joe so that he could bring his Godson along to his very first Chelsea match. Instead, Bob had spent the afternoon watching his local team Walton & Hersham defeat Farnham Town. Joe asked if I could take a few photos of the two of them and I duly obliged.

I explained that I liked the synchronicity of this, since my first-ever Chelsea game was also against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. In fact, for the second time in three seasons, the football calendar almost gave me the perfect date for this game.

Back in 1974, Chelsea played Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge on Saturday 16 March.

Two years ago, approaching the fiftieth anniversary of my debut, Chelsea played Newcastle United at home on Monday 11 March. So near and yet so far from the perfect match.

And here we were, in 2026, closer still.

Prior to this game, I had seen Chelsea play the Geordies forty-three times at Stamford Bridge in the fifty-odd years since that momentous day in my life. Apart from the COVID season of 2020/21, you must go way back to 1985/86 to when I last missed a home league game against them. The appearance of those black and white shirts at Chelsea is always an important moment for me; it reconnects me with my childhood and some of the loveliest memories of going to football over the years.

That first game in 1974, the 6-0 rout in 1980 with Phil Driver on fire, watching as Pat Nevin ran riot in 1983, seeing the emergence of the Kevin Keegan-managed “Toon Army” from 1993 until 1996, and then meeting Keegan in the tunnel before a game in the Spring of 1995, then a hugely enjoyable 1-0 win against them as the league leaders a little later in 1995 and the utter domination of them for many years. In all of the thirty-six league games I had witnessed against them, there were just three Chelsea losses. In 1983, a 0-2 defeat with Kevin Keegan a player, in 1986 and a poor 1-3 defeat, then in 2012, a 0-2 loss and those two Papiss Cisse wonder strikes. There was also a 3-4 loss in a League Cup tie in 2010.

Like us, Newcastle are a strange team this season; they have been underperforming, and have been under Sunderland too, which might be seen as more of a concern to their followers.

While Hersham Bob was watching his hometown team winning in southwest London, my hometown team were winning in the southwest of England. Frome Town stormed to a 4-0 half-time lead at home to Bishops Cleeve – what a quintessentially English name – but there were no further goals to report. The win left Dodge with a mighty fine 27-5-2 record, and with a twelve-point gap at the top of our division. This outstanding record is the highest points-per-game yield in the first nine levels of the football pyramid in England and Wales. If there isn’t a trophy for that, there bloody well should be.

The spectators drifted in. There were still blue skies overhead.

The team?

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Plamer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

I had watched the PSG game on Wednesday on TV and thought we had been tasty until the Filip Jorgensen error that gifted the home team their third goal. I think this is a commonly held view. However, I couldn’t believe the amount of people who reckoned that we were poor for most of the game. Nah, couldn’t see that.

More than a few people outside the stadium had quizzed me beforehand:

“Can you play in goal?”

So, I returned the favour and asked others.

Alas, none of us could.

Outside on the Fulham Road, I spotted two new Nike advertisements on two billboards involving Estevao. The one on Brittania Road – a prime site – has featured Chelsea players before. I took one photo of Estevao’s image behind the ever-present religious missionary who has been at Stamford Bridge for around two decades (also spotted recently at Arsenal, you have to admire his persistence, I have never ever seen anyone stop and intelligently engage with him in all these years) and so I titled the image “Estevao The Redeemer.”

There were pre-match huddles – no, I didn’t spot the referee Paul Tierney in the middle of ours – after the usual pre-match flag-waving, flames and fireworks. Much was made of Reece James signing a six-year extension by the shouty-shouty match announcer, and his crowd-surfer flag appeared to my left in the MHL.

No Clive, no Alan; just PD and little old me in row D of the Sleepy Hollow for this one.

The lovely royal blue and the famous black-and-white stripes began their battle once again. There were a couple of Geordie staples to set things off :

“We are the Geordies, the Geordie Boot Boys…”

“Oh me lads, you should have seen us gannin…”

It was a pretty decent start, quite lively, and we enjoyed most of the early pressure, with Garnacho racing down the wing on the left. At times his running style is rather odd, like a hyper-active cartoon character. Unfortunately, many of his final decisions appear to be made by Bugs Bunny.

A corner was pinged into the box and Fofana leapt to meet the ball – snap! – but it flew over. Not long after, the ball was played inside to Palmer, but he sliced his shot well wide of the left-hand post. There were efforts from James and Garnacho, forever looking to creep inside and shoot. On the quarter of an hour, a nice break involved Garnacho passing to Enzo but his shot was blocked.

Alas, on eighteen minutes, Newcastle caught us out. They had not really threatened too much but former blue Tino Livramento was afforded too much space, but he also spotted space, a huge tract of land that would be worth millions if it was to be sold at market prices, knocking an early ball through our defensive lines to Joe Willock. I feared the outcome. He advanced and Sanchez rushed out. Instead of shooting, he passed to Anthony Gordon who easily pushed the ball in. The appeals for offside were too pathetic for further comment. We had been undone as simply as it gets. We were caught too square, and nobody was remotely close to Willock. It was shocking defending.

Bollocks.

Buoyed by this goal, the visitors now took command as the frustration grew in the home areas. Unfortunately, this manifested itself in one of my co-supporters calling Moises Caicedo a “C-word” and I inwardly fumed.

The Geordies pieced together a couple of half-chances, but thankfully the danger passed.

On the half-hour, Garnacho advanced and passed to Enzo, who intelligently dummied for Palmer to take aim. Alas, his shot was blocked.

Just after, after a terribly long lull, I heard the first real chant of the day from the home supporters, a half-hearted “Amazing Grace.”

Must do better.

Then, Sanchez did well to claw away an effort from Willock at the near post.

On thirty-six minutes, a strong curling effort from Palmer was turned around his post by Aaron Ramsdale in The Shed goal.

I then heard from the depths of the Sleepy Hollow, someone call Reece James, the club captain, a “C-Word.”

Simmer. Simmer. Simmer.

There was a rather unorthodox save, late on, from Sanchez, and the worry of a VAR check on some pushing-and-shoving by the captain at a corner. Thankfully, no penalty.

There were boos at half-time. I felt like booing our support; we had been as quiet as lambs.

It had been a poor game of football thus far, and I momentarily thought back to that intoxicating game of football that took place in December 1995, forty percent of the way through my history with this lot, and the personalities and players on the pitch and the sidelines. At the time, our manager Glenn Hoddle had begun to use wingbacks and ours were Dan Petrescu and Terry Phelan. Eddie Newton and Dennis Wise were our stalwarts in midfield, while Mark Hughes lead the line. The visitors were managed by Kevin Keegan and his team included Lee Clark, Keith Gillespie, David Ginola, Peter Beardsley and Les Ferdinand. A powerful angled strike from Petrescu gave us the 1-0 win. Over thirty years on, I can vividly remember the thrill of watching a magnificent match at an absolutely rammed Stamford Bridge from the temporary seats at The Shed. The gate was 31,098, and the Geordies lost their first game of the season to us that day. It is a match that is often overlooked in favour of the more high-scoring triumphs – take your pick – against the Tynesiders, but that game and that atmosphere and that victory were huge.

It was a wonderful Chelsea performance, but the best was to come after the game had ended. In 1994, a book called “Blue Is The Colour” was written by Khadija Buckland, a native of West London, who was living close by in Chippenham in Wiltshire. Glenn and I became acquainted with her via her friendship with Ron Harris and, after a while, we arranged to take Khadija up to Chelsea so she could sell her book in the executive areas of the East Stand. Anyway, to cut to the chase, as a reward for taking her up, she had arranged for Glenn, my Geordie mate Pete and me to gain entrance to the players’ bar after the game with Newcastle. We shuffled around by the entrance to the tunnel and waited by a door. I remember that pop star Robbie Williams quickly left the bar and we were then escorted in by Khadija.

Talk about the inner sanctum.

In a small room behind the old changing rooms (which I am sure no longer exists, what with the enlarging of the home dressing room area), we stood at the cosy bar, while Dennis Wise, his girlfriend and mother were chatting in a small group. A few players flitted in and out. I always remember Mark Hughes; arriving quietly, standing at the bar alone, silently sipping a lager. I went over to ask him to sign the programme and I was genuinely awestruck.

Shall we go back to 2026?

Do we have to?

The manager took off Gusto and replaced him with Liam Delap. The shuffle around was easy to work out. James to right-back, Enzo in midfield, Joao Pedro behind Delap. It had a far more attacking feel.

Garnacho was soon involved down below me, but how I wished that he wouldn’t cut back onto his right peg…Every. Single. Time.

Harvey Barnes raced away on a quick break, taking the ball right into the danger area, and I feared danger, but his final pass to Nick Woltemade was heavy, and the chance evaporated.

Delap then looked lively, picking up a loose ball and shooting at goal, but Ramsdale was able to push the ball wide.

At last, some noise from the Matthew Harding.

“Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea – Come On Chelsea.”

For the first fifteen minutes of the half, with the Stamford Bridge crowd now energised a little, and with the volumes at pretty reasonable levels – for 2026, not 1995 – it honestly felt like an equaliser was on its way and we would be in contention for a much-needed win. Chances didn’t really materialise though; a shot from Joao Pedro was blocked – snap –  but there was little else. We found it difficult to penetrate Newcastle’s two banks of players. God knows what Kevin Keegan would have made of it all.

There was an odd substitution on sixty-one minutes; arguably our best player Caicedo was replaced by “half-a-game” Romeo Lavia.

On sixty-eight minutes, a really fine save from Sanchez down at The Shed denied Gordon. Just after, a Delap run in the inside-right channel but his shot came to nothing. Just after, a delightful cross from Reece found Cucurella who set up Delap. Alas, his effort from merely yards away was unceremoniously booted over the crossbar.

We screamed in anguish. This was the golden chance.

Damn it.

Then, a corner was cleared, Reece crossed the ball in again, but the ball went wide.

On eighty-two minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

Four minutes later, Chalobah met a James corner with a high leap at the far post – snap – but the ball sailed high and wide.

Fackinell.

Then, another Delap chance; a header, over.

The narrative is clear here, isn’t it? Half-chance followed half-chance, but our finishing was woeful.

Eight minutes of added time were signalled, and I remained – stupidly, naively, pathetically – optimistic. Two minutes in, a free kick was awarded in a good area. Messrs Palmer and James met in a two-man huddle thirty yards out to discuss who would take the kick. In the end, the captain shot.

There was a roar and I was up celebrating but could then hardly believe that it had not caused the net to ripple and flutter.

Ballbags.

One last chance, a looper from Joao Pedro from a Palmer cross that nestled apologetically on the roof of the net.

Sigh.

We lost 0-1.

Newcastle finally had our number.

There were more boos at the final whistle.

Despite that ridiculous rollcall of chances, did we ever look like scoring?

I bumped into Long Tall Pete on the Fulham Road and he suggested not.

We had been poor. Newcastle were no great shakes either. It was another example, in a long, long list, of games that just failed to entertain us all.

Just after meeting up with Pete, I spotted the world’s most pathetic and useless sign, which was advising pedestrians as they walked along the road to do the following:

“PLEASE KEEP TO YOUR LEFT OR RIGHT.”

And I immediately thought how this had summed up our play not only on this day, but on many others too. Don’t worry about hitting players early with a direct ball up the middle, to keep defences worried about how to defend, nor hit incisive passes forward into the path of breaking midfielders, but just keep passing laterally to your left and to your right, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

If there was one thing that had made the game slightly bearable it was the occasional glimpse of the sublime talent that is Cole Palmer. He wasn’t exceptional, nor even great, but there were moments when he mesmerised both his markers, and me, and this was no mean feat on a day of such poor play.  

If this game had been played forty years ago and had not been on TV in every nation that wanted to see it, the result would have not merited much of a debate.

“I see Chelsea lost at home. Did you go?”

“Yeah, never looked like scoring. Just couldn’t put many moves together. Cole Palmer was worth the admission money, mind.”

In 2026, immediately after kick-off, millions of words were exchanged about our inadequacies, and everything seemed magnificently overblown. I am all for debate and appraisal and all, but sometimes I just want to scream at the levels of toxicity. Inside the stadium, we had hardly played our part, leaving it unfashionably late to start to cheer the team on. But such is modern football and the dynamics have changed.

I have written over two million words on this website about Chelsea games and I fully suspect thousands have been written about the decay of the Stamford Bridge atmosphere. Our traditional support has become older and less likely to engage in boisterous singing, while our newer generation of fans have perhaps become spoilt or even blasé, plus there is the view that clueless visitors from foreign fields do not understand the fan culture, nor add to the atmosphere. Crucially, there are real fears that our bedrock support is being priced out. All those factors play a part in the terrible demise of our matchday atmosphere.

There has also been a subtle shift in attitude. As I have said before, we used to go as supporters. Now everyone is a bloody expert.

Among all this doom and gloom, I still think that we are just a decent goalkeeper and an experienced central defender away from competing, but that just might be the naïve and overly optimistic me. Can Clearlake commit to that? It doesn’t match their model – buying young kids for resale – and that is the big problem. But surely if we fixed those two areas, we would increase our chances to make money which is all that they bloody care about.

Right then, who’s going to the second leg against that French lot on Tuesday?

See you there.

Tales From Wrexham

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Wrexham vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2026.

The Football Gods had shone on us once more. After FA Cup away trips to Charlton Athletic and Hull City, we were blessed with another rare venue; a trip to North Wales to see us play Wrexham.

To be honest, there are so many different strands to this cup tie, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

How about a little bit of history?

Well, there isn’t a great deal. The two teams first met in the old Second Division in August 1979 and would do so again at that level for three seasons. This period represented the high-water mark in Wrexham’s footballing path at the time, and it hasn’t been matched until now. I saw Wrexham once in that period.

I visited Stamford Bridge for our game with them on Saturday10 October 1981. This was a memorable day for me as it was the first time that I travelled up to London by myself, by train from Westbury station, aged sixteen. It’s likely that PD – who would be travelling with Parky alongside me forty-five years later – was on the same Paddington-bound train that morning. I was in the Lower Sixth at the time, drifting along, with my love for Chelsea far outweighing my love for academic study. I had newly subscribed to the home match programme that season and every Monday morning I would be so excited to receive the latest edition. Chelsea won 2-0 on that autumn afternoon, with goals from Colin Lee and Mike Fillery in front of 14,710. It would be the last time I’d see Petar Borota in goal.

Later that same season, the teams met in three FA Cup games in early 1982. On 23 January, a crowd of 17,226 saw a 0-0 draw at Stamford Bridge. This necessitated a replay at Wrexham three days later. On this occasion, 8,655 witnessed a 1-1 draw with a goal from the much-maligned Alan Mayes. In those days, we had second replays and this took place five days later on 31 January. We triumphed 2-1 on this occasion, in front of a gate of 10,647. The goals came from Mayes, again, and Micky Droy. Incidentally, we met Hull City in the previous round that year, just as we did last month.

We went on to beat European Champions Liverpool in the fifth round at Stamford Bridge before losing to Tottenham at home in the quarters. The two gates for those games of 41,412 and 42,557 were huge at the time. Our average gate in the league that season was just 13,132.

Between those two games, we lost a run-of-the-mill league game 0-1 at the Racecourse Ground on 27 February 1982. By then, I think both sets of supporters were sick to the back teeth of seeing each other. Just 3,935 attended.

And that was our last game against Wrexham until those two recent hideous friendlies against them in the US. In 2023, we beat them 5-0 in North Carolina, and a year later we drew 2-2 in California. At the time, it felt that we were bit-part players to a reality TV show and those two games didn’t sit right with me. I remember watching the first few minutes of the first match on TV and I have never seen a more tepid atmosphere at a football match. Why the hell were we playing Wrexham? They were hardly at our level.

Oh yeah, I know why.

By then, of course, Wrexham was a global football phenomenon after the take-over by Messrs. Reynolds and McElhenney. Their rise through the football pyramid has been one of the “feel good” stories in recent years and although it is tempting to be churlish and mock this amazing story, there is no doubt that the town seems to have been energised since the two North Americans strode into town.

I just find it a little odd that Americans loved the connection between the Wrexham team and its community; they seemed surprised and shocked, as if this sort of bond doesn’t happen in the US. This was my big take on all this. But then I wondered if high school football teams have the same bond with their communities? And, if so, maybe that is the only comparable example. Maybe in US pro-sports there is no sense of belonging. No sense of local pride. Or a shared brotherhood. I can’t imagine a sporting culture like that.

When I was in the US last summer, I lost count of the number of Americans that mentioned the word “Wrexham” to me, and it all got rather tiresome.

And all because of a TV programme.

Crazy, tedious and amazing all at once.

Chelsea was given 1,330 tickets for the game and I must praise Wrexham for not hiking the price of tickets to silly levels. My ticket cost just £27, no doubt a lot less than those two games in Chapel Hill and Santa Clara.

I set off from Frome at 9am and the day stretched out in front of me. The kick-off wasn’t until 5.45pm, but I fancied a nice long day following the love of my life. Neither Parky nor PD had visited Wrexham before, so this had all the makings of a cracking day out. It was a misty and foggy start to the day. We wolfed down a McDonalds breakfast at Melksham, then headed up on to the M4, onto the M5, before stopping at Frankley Services just south of Birmingham. There, we bumped into Chelsea stalwarts Allie and Nick. We touched the M6 for a few miles and then veered off onto the M54. PD and I drove this way to a League Cup game at Shrewsbury in 2014. It is not used very often on my travels around the country following the team.

The traffic lessened as I headed north, and the countryside grew flat. Just over the Welsh border, we stopped at Bangor-on-Dee, just a few miles south of Wrexham. It was 1.30pm. This little village, with a quaint cobbled bridge over the River Dee had one pub, “The Buck”, and we stayed there for forty-five minutes. The Mansfield Town vs. Arsenal cup game from Field Mill was on TV and seemed to be entertaining the locals – somehow. Maybe they had been fans of “Robot Wars”. It seemed Arsenal were struggling a little but edged it 2-1.

A few summers ago, drinking with my mate Chris in Washington, County Durham – a lovely summer sesh at a sports bar – I met up with his mate John, a Wrexham fan. We spoke about the Wrexham and Chelsea connections; Eddie Niedzwiecki, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones, John Neal. We got on like a house on fire; we stayed in touch. Over the past few weeks, John was able to tip me off with a few nuggets of local information for my day in Wrexham, and he had advised a pub to aim for, just across the road from the Racecourse Ground.

The Racecourse Ground. It first came into my consciousness one day in May 1980. I was playing cricket for my school team in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and was aware that England were playing Wales at Wrexham in the home internationals. Wales defeated England 4-1 that day; a real shock, back in the days when I cared about the national team. There was a memorable Mark Hughes volley at the Kop End against Spain in 1985, and a Mickey Thomas screamer for Wrexham against Arsenal in the FA Cup in 1992.

I had mentioned to John and Chris that while travelling up to Glasgow from Stoke to see Rangers in March 1987, three Wrexham nutters got on the train at Crewe, and they were on their way to support Celtic in a game at Hamilton. To be honest, they were proper psychos and were part of Wrexham’s Frontline firm at the time. I mentioned that the main lad, who I was sat opposite, had ginger hair.

Chris and John said at the same time “that was Neil.”

It must be a close-knit community in Wrexham. I figured that Neil was the leader. One of the three went with Chelsea a fair bit. A lad from Cardiff was on our table, on his way to Ibrox too. The conversations between them were quite an eye-opener. It seemed that they were totally and unequivocally devoted to football violence. John and Chris had mentioned that Neil had quite recently passed away.

Later that night in Washington, we were joined by John’s mate from Wrexham, Scoot, who is the lead singer in the Declan Swans, a local band that has featured in the Wrexham TV series. Having never seen the series, I was oblivious, but after meeting Scoot, I found myself playing their signature song “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” non-stop for a few days. What a catchy song.

We moved on and I headed into Wrexham. It’s a city of around 45,000 people, and I am a little annoyed that I didn’t really get to see too much of it. I dropped the lads off at “Maesgwyn Hall”, then parked up at the nearby university. My car was only around seventy yards from the away turnstiles; “tidy” as they say somewhere.

I fell in love with the angled European-style floodlight pylons as I navigated my way around three sides of the cramped stadium. The old Kop is no more; a void sits in its place, waiting for a new 7,500 structure that will bring the capacity up to around 18,000. I suspect that the local supporters would be happy to host games hosting such a number. It seems about right for a city of Wrexham’s size. Should the owners over-egg it, and aim for a higher capacity, one wonders if the indigenous support would be able to support it. A reliance on a global – OK, US – support should not be taken for granted. There’s a difference between supporters’ buses coming in from Llandudno and Rhyl and planes arriving from Los Angeles and Philadelphia.

Out on the Mold Road, the new Macron Stand isn’t particularly appetising; it’s cladding resembles that of a trading estate warehouse. However, tucked in a corner is the famous “Turf” pub – where the club was formed in 1864 and because of its many appearances in the TV series – which now boasts a lovely mural of the late Joey Jones on one of its walls. There is the famous clenched fist, so beloved by the Chelsea faithful when Joey played for us between 1982 and 1985.

I, like many others I think, was not too happy when Joey joined us in 1982, amid a terrible season, for just £34,000. He seemed well past his best – he was a European Champion with Liverpool, remember – when we picked him up from lowly Wrexham, with whom he played before his big move to Merseyside. I was even less impressed with him when he was sent off on his debut at Carlisle. However, over the next two-and-a-half years his passion and commitment to our cause, under former Wrexham manager John Neal, allowed him to become a Chelsea legend.

As I began taking some photos of Joey, who should appear but Allie and Nick. I took a photo of then in front of Joey. They took one of me.

Mission accomplished.

I was calling this game “The Joey Jones Derby” and I had my photo with him.

I was happy.

I made my way over to the pub at 3pm and we stayed the best part of two hours. It was full of friendly locals, many wearing Wrexham favours. I sat with PD and Parky and – a rare treat – I decided to reward myself with two pints of cider. Our friends Youth and his son Seb sat with us. There was a rugby union game on the TV, but I avoided it.

Tommie from Porthmadog dropped in for a short stay, buzzing that a Chelsea game – for once – only took him an hour and forty minutes to get to. I first met Tommie in Bratislava in 1997, and he is a good friend. Tommie and Chris are brothers. Tommie mentioned that Scoot had ‘phoned him earlier in the day and had teased him about “not singing about sheep-shagging”.

We had a great pre-match.

The team news came through. We weren’t happy. For some bizarre reason, Liam Rosenior had chosen us to line up in a 3/4/3 formation.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Tosin Adarabioyo – Benoit Badiashile

Josh Acheampong – Andrey Santos – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Alejandro Garnacho

Just before I left, I shook hands with the two Wrexham fans next to me and said, “good luck in the next round.”

 I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. We all smiled.

This honestly felt like a huge banana skin had been placed under our football boots.

Unlike at Villa, there was no bag search and my SLR was in. The stand at Wrexham was cramped, and I struggled to edge my way along to my seat.

It was 5pm.

So far, a perfect matchday…now, it was up to the lads.

Gulp.

The consensus among a selection of some very familiar faces next to me in the stand was that the new formation, and mass-changes, was a negative. My annoyance was Rosenior’s changing of the goalkeeper and centre-backs. They had played well at Villa a few days before. Change other personnel, but keep those three in place, to attempt to try to get some sort of continuity. Jorgensen, Fofana and Chalobah made way for Sanchez, Badiashile and Tosin.

The Chelsea section creaked with the closeness of 1,330 supporters. There were familiar faces everywhere.

Before the entrance of the teams from the off-centre tunnel down below, a mosaic on the far side was displayed, but the words were not clear. I only later realised that the cards spelled out “OH JOEY JOEY”.

So, the Joey Jones Derby was recognised by the home team; super. I had hoped for Mickey Thomas to appear on the pitch, at half-time maybe, but he never did. A shame.

Soon into the match, a chant from the locals in the Tec End to my right, a nice bit of banter.

“National League Champions, You’ll Never Sing That.

Off the pitch, there was a frenzied atmosphere, with the home fans bubbling over with enthusiasm. You felt their passion from the off. This felt like a classic Cup Tie already. There was an edginess to our play in the first quarter of an hour and we didn’t seem comfortable.

Being so close to the goal, I kept thinking back to that screamer from Mickey Thomas in 1992. It was lovely to be visiting a famous stadium for the first time after seeing it so often on TV through the years.

On twenty minutes, a catastrophe. A long ball out of the Wrexham defence from Callum Doyle was perfectly weighted for Sam Smith to chase. The twin centre-backs had been caught out and scurried back in desperation. There was no surprise when I saw the shot from Smith – through my camera lens – evade Sanchez and end up in the goal.

The home support erupted. To my right, bodies jerked and spasmed in all directions at once, and the home stands roared.

“Here we go” I thought.

A VAR check – new to this lot – did not stop the goal.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea 0.

Llffackwynll.

After the commotion had died down, out came a chant from the Tec End.

“1-0 to the Sheep Shaggers.”

And another one, heavy on self-deprecation.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

I had a little chuckle.

What of our play? We couldn’t get going and our passing was slow and lacked invention. I found Pedro Neto particularly frustrating; forever carrying the ball, but to nowhere in particular. It was if his Sat Nav was broken.

Leigh was stood behind me, and he had seen the manager and the team up close in a Chester hotel the previous night. He had mentioned that Rosenior looked unduly worried and nervous ahead of this match.

Perhaps he was right to be.

Wrexham were playing to their strengths; tight marking, tough tackling, direct when needed. Joey Jones would have approved.

Our chances were rare. There was only one half-chance involving Neto and Garnacho.

At the other end, the gaping void where The Kop once stood, there were a couple of Wrexham chances. On the half-hour, Smith slipped at the last minute, thank the Lord. Just after, a fine reflex push-away from Sanchez at the near post.

Phew.

Wrexham had undoubtedly produced the better football thus far, but we were slowly getting into the game in the closing section of the half. On forty minutes the ball was punched forward to Liam Delap by Andrey Santos. Thus far he had received service but had been woeful with what he had been given. On this occasion, he was fantastic, beating off a challenge and turning, running into space. He passed to Alejandro Garnacho who raced on and shot at goal. I captured his shot through my camera lens, but how the ball ended up in the net was a matter of confusion. Just after he reeled away – minimal celebration, good to see – there was an announcement that there had been an own goal from Arthur Okonkwo in the Wrexham goal.

So be it.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea.

There was great relief at the break. This game was, of course, being shown on free-to-view national TV on BBC1, and the viewing millions were surely enjoying this classic Cup Tie. Well, I am sure they were enjoying it more than I was. We had been poor, but now we needed to push on.

Lo and behold, the second half began with two chances from the home team in front of us at the Tec End. A shot over the bar, a shot at Sanchez.

Then, at the other end, on fifty-three minutes, Delap set up Garnacho on the left, but he fired wide.

I almost missed it, but the Tec End sang the chorus from “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham.”

“Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-one’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.”

On fifty-eight minutes, Rosenior made a change; Marc Guiu for Sarr, and I tried to work out the jigsaw puzzle of players and positions but soon gave up as the match became even more intriguing.

Sanchez erred, clearing to a Wrexham player, but the ball was hoofed away.

On sixty-two minutes, Neto set up Hato and the latter slammed a ball just wide of a post.

Just after, two more changes.

Marc Cucurella for Lavia, still to play a whole game.

Dario Essugo for Hato.

There was a run and a shot from Neto that went just wide. But Wrexham were creating chances too. I turned to Leigh and Ben and grimly admitted that “all this pressure is going to pay off, isn’t it?”

In the very next passage of play, a corner was swung in, and cleared, but only as far as a Wrexham player outside the box. Josh Windass kept the ball low, and it was deflected in via a neat touch by Callum Doyle.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea1.

Bwyllocks.

Seventy-nine minutes were on the clock. This was dire.

However, just three minutes later, a loose ball in the Wrexham box was won by Santos and he played in a teammate. I caught a shot on film, and saw the ball slam into the net, though was unsure of the scorer.

Wild celebrations now.

What a Cup Tie.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 2.

The scorer was Young Josh.

BOSH.

Just after, Sanchez saved well from George Thomason, and a header then flew wide from Windass.

Phew.

Two more substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Acheampong.

Joao Pedro for Delap.

On eighty-six minutes, Neto slammed a shot against the crossbar.

Ugh.

The game edged into six minutes of additional time. Soon into that period, Garnacho was chopped down on the left wing. The yellow for George Dobson was changed by VAR to a red. The defender was sent marching.

The home support screeched about VAR, and of course they have a point.

Just after, an absolute blooter was hit right at Sanchez.

On ninety plus extra-time, it was level and so the game continued for another thirty minutes. Here was a modern-day equivalent of that 1982 three-game marathon.

In the first period of extra time, it was all us. In the sixth minute, Essugo played the ball out to Garnacho, in a not-too-dissimilar position to where he struck before, and he volleyed at goal. From my angle, it looked like the ball had hit the near post. Nobody reacted. But we then saw Garnacho running away, his arms held high. The referee was pointing at the centre-circle.

Goal? What?

I don’t think the Chelsea support has ever celebrated a go-ahead goal as quietly as that ever before.

Very strange.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 3.

Now in front, the Chelsea support changed the tune from urging the team on to a dig at our own US-based owners.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.”

Jesse Derry replaced Neto.

As the second period of fifteen minutes began, I turned to Leigh and Ben.

“Boring half coming up.”

Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?

Five minutes in, a Wrexham free kick was sent narrowly over.

Eight minutes in, a block from Tosin stopped Kieffer Moor’s goal bound header. From the corner that followed, Moore flicked the ball on, and Lewis Brunt, loitering on the far post – surely offside, ref! – poked the ball in. While the locals, and large swathes of the US, celebrated, we waited for the correct decision.

VAR.

Offside.

Yep.

There was still five minutes of injury time to play; this tie simply did not want to end.

One minute into this, a curler from Lewis Brunt swept just past a post. The looks on our faces told of relief and disbelief in equal measure.

I must say that Joao Pedro looked fantastic in his short cameo appearance, full of beautiful hold-up play – he’s not exactly Mark Hughes, but he knows how to shield the ball – and gentle prods to others.

Thankfully, he was on hand in the last minute to sweep a ball in, again on film, and we howled our approval.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 4.

Our deficiencies were never far away, but we hauled ourselves over the line, and into the hat for the Quarter Finals.

It was hard work, but what a pulsating Cup tie.

It was an absolute classic.

We were back at my car within two minutes, and I began the long drive south.

Thanks Wrexham.

What a great day out.

Joey would have loved it.

It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham

He ordered a medium doner kebab.

Saving a tenner to pay for his cab.

Seems no harm in jumping the queue.

Showing the owner his latest tattoo.

Guy in his forties is rolling a joint.

Pleased his team has rescued a point.

A wicked deflection in time added on.

Can see in his eyes he was totally gone.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

King Street was calm on a Saturday night.

Apart from the usual worrying sight.

Of zombie-fied corpses parading the streets.

Arched over flower beds slumped across streets.

Mass the bus stop for Moss and Brynteg.

Zombie apocalypse modern day plague.

A stone’s throw away or a two second ride.

Wetherspoons locals are smoking outside.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

Tales From The Men In Black

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Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 4 March 2026.

Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.

This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.

It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.

I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.

The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.

Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.

Liam Rosenior had chosen this team :

Filip Jorgensen

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Was Robert Sanchez injured or dropped?

We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.

The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.

Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I was shell-shocked.

The home support was enlivened.

“Holte Enders in the skoy.”

Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.

Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.

Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.

“Get it forward!”

I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”

On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.

The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.

Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.

Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.

We continued to be press forward.

Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”

We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.  

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.

“Go on son, get past him.”

Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.

In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.

Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,

To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.

Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.

Now it was our turn to roar again.

Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.

Nah. The goal stood.

At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.

“Great recovery that, John.”

I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?

Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.

Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.

The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.

On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.

He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.

GET IN.

I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.

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

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

We were 3-1 up.

Beautiful.

We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.

Chelsea is all about style.

But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.

On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.

A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.

The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.

The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.

4-1.

Fackinell.

Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.

On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.

In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.

75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.

79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.

79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,

85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.

John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.

Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”

With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.

“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.

In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.

The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.

I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.

And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.

Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.

“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”

“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”

“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”

Thankfully, everything worked out.

Next up, a first-ever trip for me to Wrexham.

Stay tuned.

Tales From Arnos Grove And Arsenal

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 1 March 2026.

Since we hadn’t been vastly outplayed nor overpowered in the three previous encounters with Arsenal this season, up until the home game with Burnley I was quite gung-ho about our chances in this away game at the Emirates Stadium. Then, the Burnley disaster – relatively speaking – came and went and my hopes took a battering.

I just couldn’t see us getting anything from this game, and many shared this view.

This would be our second visit to Arsenal in a month and, gluttons for punishment that we are, we were on our way once more. This time, Glenn and Parky were able to join in too, and as I drove east, we thinly discussed our chances, though talk was of other topics too.

I chatted a little about Frome Town’s 4-0 walloping of Bideford the previous day; a game in which my local team found the visitors from North Devon to be an obstinate nut to crack. However, a 1-0 lead after just one minute was then increased with three late goals. The gate was a healthy 506, bringing our league average up to 497. Dodge remain fourteen points clear at the top, with just ten games left. It’s obviously bad policy to take promotion for granted, but we are surely only a few more wins away from that. I am trying to get to as many games as possible, and because I have decided not to go to Parc des Princes for the PSG game – many reasons – I have highlighted a trip to Cornwall for a midweek game at Falmouth as a potential replacement. Whisper it, but the other three lads seemed keen too.

We spoke about the day being the twentieth anniversary of the passing of Peter Osgood and we all struggled to take it all in. How can that terrible morning be twenty years ago? We also spoke of the tenth anniversary of The King’s death, and how that coincided with a game at Norwich City. I remember unfurling my Peter Osgood flag at kick-off at that game and being captured fleetingly on the TV feed.

Twenty years ago. Ten years ago. Oh my.

Talking about the passing of time, this would be my twenty-first visit to The Emirates. I rarely miss a match at their new place. Barring a COVID game in 2020/21 and the League Cup game in 2013/14 when we had nine thousand there, I have seen them all.

And – roll on drums – Arsenal have not ended up as League Champions in all those years. Their last Championship was at Highbury in 2003/4.

It has been a very enjoyable time indeed, hasn’t it?

Too bloody right.

Our pre-match for this game took place, once again, in the Arnos Arms at Arnos Grove, just six stops to the north of the Arsenal tube station on the Piccadilly Line. We spent three hours in this large and welcoming hostelry until it was time to take the train south. As we left the pub, both Tottenham and Manchester United were losing.

It only took around fifteen minutes to get to Arsenal.

I took a photo of my four companions – Parky, PD, Jimmy and Glenn – as they slowly marched up the long incline at Arsenal tube. I always love visiting this station as it brings back memories of those visits to Highbury from 1984/85 to 2004/5 to see Chelsea take on our rivals in red and white, not to mention the 1997 FA Cup Semi-Final against Wimbledon. I visited Highbury on nine occasions. I love the hubbub out on Gillespie Road, full of matchday stalls, albeit of the wrong colours, and all the fast-food stalls. It’s a hive of activity. I imagined Ron Harris visiting the old Highbury with his father in the ‘fifties, an Arsenal family in those days. And I remembered my first visit in August 1984; a perfect day.

I decided to veer off and take a little tour of the stadium; an anticlockwise meander, and one that I have only ever done once before. I took a few photos, no surprises there, eh?

It started to rain as I made my way into the away block. There were familiar faces everywhere. In the pub, we had planned our exit strategy. If we were losing by two clear goals on eighty-five minutes, we would meet out by the Herbert Chapman statue. If the game was closer, we would stay ton the end. Getting out was all about causing PD and Parky as little discomfort in walking back to the tube as possible.

I took my position right behind the corner flag in row 2 at about 4pm. I shared a few images with some mates in the US and told them to keep a look out for me.

“North Face mustard, can’t miss me…and that’s my jacket, not my complexion.”

The stadium filled. I was aware that the Arsenal lot were to unfurl a new “tifo” before the game. I think it might have said “Being Second Best Isn’t For Everyone” but as it was paraded obliquely to my right, I couldn’t see it. In the League Cup semi-final, the pre-match was a light show, but on this occasion, it was flames and fireworks, as per.

Then “North London Forever” with the followers of the Woolwich Wanderers holding their thousands of bar scarves above their heads, bless them, the epitome of modern football.

Our team?

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalabah – Mamadou Sarr – Jorrel Hato

Andrey Santos – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

I was alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Big game for Sarr, Gal.”

Each team had a pre-match huddle.

For the first time that I can remember, we attacked the Clock End in the first half. We had the best of the first quarter of an hour, but a lone shot from Cole Palmer on five minutes that was sliced high and wide of David Raya’s left-hand post was also unfortunately matched by three instances of worrying distribution from Robert Sanchez up the other end.

I wasn’t sure if my nerves could take too much more of that.

Yet again I was surprised how deep Declan Rice plays for Arsenal.

The Chelsea crowd did their best to get behind the lads.

The confusing “we’re going to have a party (future tense), when Arsenal fucked it up (past tense)” was aired and I did wonder if this welding together of the past and the future might signal that Arsenal have and always will bugger it all up somehow.

If so, ingenious.

Inspired, even.

I kept saying pre-match that I wanted us to keep it tight in the first ten minutes, not conceding, not getting their fans all agitated.

We had succeeded; it was a decent start.

On eighteen minutes, all eyes were on Captain Reece as he came over to take the first corner in front of us of the match. His gently back-spinning cross dropped just wide of the near post.

Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Arsenal did what Arsenal do, and they robotically scored from a corner. The ball came in towards the back stick where Gabriel Magalhaes headed the ball back across the six-yard box for William Saliba to score.

Bollocks.

This wasn’t much of a spectacle, and the noise levels were far from deafening. The home lot certainly didn’t seem like they were supporting a team on the cusp of a first title in twenty-two years.

On the half-hour, an odd Raya kick out, and he ended up sprawling as he was put under pressure by Joao Pedro, who was looking lively.

On thirty-six minutes, Arsenal broke away and really should have done better, but the chance to shoot finally fell to Rice, who blasted over. This was a rare free-flowing move from anyone.

I had to laugh when, late into the half, Gary commented that he finally realised that Moises Caicedo was playing. I laughed because five minutes earlier, I had realised that Andrey Santos was playing too. Their roles, often hidden in the patterns of passing, were evidently even more camouflaged in this game.

In the second minute of injury time, we lambasted Reece James for walking over to take the third corner of the half in front of us.

“Come on Reece, get a move on” was the clean version.

He whipped in a corner towards the near post, and amid the forest of bodies, Raya made a fine reaction save as the ball ricocheted towards him.

Another corner was awarded.

I remember thinking “not another drop into the near post AGAIN.”

There was a sizeable delay before this corner was taken, and perhaps this worked in our favour. The captain whipped it in, a blur, I snapped, bodies rose, the ball made the net ripple.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

Reece ran over to the corner flag, joined by his teammates, and after the initial guttural roar from my very soul, I jumped into action.

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

Some were decent, some were shite.

But a great moment.

“If we can take two points off them here” – strangely this seemed just as important as us getting a pint – “we can really dent their title push.”

It became apparent that someone called Piero Hincapie, whoever he might be, scored an OG.

Smiles at half-time.

“If only we can hold on.”

We had learned that Tottenham had lost at Fulham – good – but United had come back to beat Palace – not good, but now it was all about us.

There were huddles from both teams before the referee began the second period, with us now attacking the far side. My pub camera had done its job. I wasn’t to use it much in this half.

I couldn’t help noticing how quiet everything was. I also couldn’t help spotting too many half-and-half scarves in our end.

I am not a violent man, but…

On forty-nine minutes, Sanchez was to the rescue as he ran out to clear a through-ball. Just after, Enzo received a ball from Joao Pedro and forced a fine save from Raya. Then just after that, another Reece James special was headed on by Trevoh Chalobah – who had really impressed me in the first half – and set up Joao Pedro to head at goal.

Well, dear reader, I was convinced we would score and was up and ready to scream, but Raya miraculously saved.

Bollocks.

On fifty-six minutes, a really lovely move from back to front, and a great cross from Reece on the right, and a flick on from Joao Pedro was just too high for Palmer to connect.

Ugh.

It had been “all us” in the last ten minutes.

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Alas, alas, alas.

On sixty-six minutes, Rice appeared like an arch nemesis in front of us and placed the ball down. It’s fair to say that he took a modicum of abuse from the away faithful.

Sadly, he spun the ball in, and although I did not see much the activity in the six-yard box, I did however see the ball fall inside the goalmouth and the net ripple.

Rice spun around and beamed the widest of smiles at us as he shuffled backwards before turning to run over to be with his teammates.

Fackinell.

It’s an image that I fear will forever be seared into my brain, just like the cry of joy from Julian Dicks as he scored against us at home in 1995, with us watching very close in the temporary stand at The Shed.

Arsenal were now 2-1 up.

Just after, we found ourselves up the far end. A crap corner from Neto, who had been booked just three minutes earlier, and the ball was hit out for Gabriel Martinelli to chase. Neto, humiliated by the terrible corner, raced behind him, but for some reason known to only him, decided not to try and catch up with the raiding Arsenal player and just put pressure on him. Instead, he wildly scythed him down.

A second yellow, a red.

“You idiot, Neto.”

As he walked past the away fans, he avoided eye contact with all three thousand of us.

“Braindead, Gary. Should be fined a week’s wages for that. Idiot.”

Oh bloody hell.

With the scent of victory in the air, Arsenal were now able to find their voices. They did make a fair old racket for a short time. But I could not give them, nor their team, much credit. We had spoken in the pub, quite candidly, how that “Invincible” team of 2003/4 contained some cracking players, and how they played some decent football under Arsene Wenger. But twenty-odd years later, this team seems to play football in a way that has turned many off. This robotic reliance on set pieces. This overly physical – to the point of being unlawful – style of anti-football has found few admirers outside North London. Nobody seems to be happy that Arsenal might win the league playing like this. It seems that we have come full circle from the “1-0 to The Arsenal” days of 1990/91. It’s as if Wenger never existed.

Mikel Arteta as the new George Graham.

Ugh.

On seventy-five minutes, some changes.

Malo Gusto for Hato.

Romeo Lavia for Santos.

Just after Kai Havertz came on for them.

“Oh God, no.”

After seventy-nine minutes, a very fine save down low by Sanchez from an Eberechi Eze effort.

On eighty-six minutes, more changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Palmer.

Liam Delap for Enzo.

A real piledriver from Caicedo flew just over the bar. These were desperate times. On ninety-two minutes, a drifting and dropping cross from Garnacho dropped towards the far post but that man Raya leapt to claw away, another fine save.

I thought Delap did well in his late cameo.

On ninety-five minutes, the ball was floated towards Joao Pedro who balletically volleyed at Raya, who could not hold the ball. It fell to Delap…pulses racing now…and he poked the ball home.

The net rippled, I went ballistic, hugging a random stranger, punching the air.

But then.

Offside.

I turned and slumped onto the seat behind me.

Dejected.

At the final whistle, we edged out. I looked behind me and only saw Reece James – he had been magnificent all game, our best player by a country mile – coming over to applaud us.

Sigh.

I clocked two young lads in the Chelsea section smiling and occasionally laughing, while the rest of us mournfully paraded past, heads down, deflated. I have no evidence that they were Arsenal fans. I have no evidence that they were Chelsea fans. They spoke with foreign voices.

The difference in body language between them and the rest of us was insane.

I am not a violent man, but…

Outside, we met up and slowly made our way back to the waiting tube, not at Arsenal, but onwards to Finsbury Park, where we took the short hop to Arnos Grove.

A cheeseburger with onions helped ease my pain a little.

A little.

At around 7.45pm, I pointed my car westwards and began the long drive home.

Overall, I didn’t think we were particularly awful. We all shared this view. We had that purple patch before they scored their second. We had a few chances. Cole Palmer is a worry. Will we see him return to his form of old anytime soon? No, I know we didn’t play much expansive football. But we are still a young team, a team still learning about each other. To be honest, I did find the reaction of the Chelsea support to be so ridiculously varied that I had to wonder if everyone was watching the same match. Some were scathing about our performance. Some found it to be more positive. All I can say is that we were always in it, right to the very end. We weren’t beaten heavily.

I know as a spectacle it wasn’t brilliant. I would have hated watching it on TV. But that’s modern football for you. Most games are a tough watch these days.

Eventually I made it home.

This awayday had lasted from 9am to 11pm, and we have two more away days at Aston Villa and Wrexham on the near horizon.

It’s what we do, I guess.

I’ll see you there.

Tales From A Game Of Real Stupidity

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Chelsea vs. Burnley : 21 February 2026.

After missing the Hull City trip the previous weekend – a professional performance, a lovely trip to Wrexham next – the home game with relegation-threatened Burnley was therefore my first Chelsea match in eleven days. From the very off, this felt like the very definition of a “bog standard” / “run of the mill” match at Stamford Bridge, and it didn’t exactly get our pulses racing as we all converged on SW6.

I was inside the ground at 2.30pm and I soon glimpsed over at the away end to see what allocation Burnley had managed to bring. As I suspected, it was the lower of the two amounts: 1,500 and not 3,000. This was no surprise. Wolves are already down and the claret and blues from Lancashire are surely not far behind them, or above them to be exact. I would have been really surprised had they opted for the full amount.

My mate Alan soon arrived and showed me a photo in the match programme that honoured Gary’s father Ron who had passed away before Christmas, aged ninety-one. For many years, he had a season ticket with Gary in the front row of the East Upper. What a view that must have been.

Paul showed up a little later after being spotted down in “Jimmy’s” with – er – Jimmy, as they both enjoyed an extension of their pre-match drinking session that I had joined at around 12.30pm in “The Eight Bells.” Before that, I had shot over to London Bridge Road to treat myself to a “double double” at “Manze’s” pie and mash shop, the oldest in London. It was my third visit, and the grub was as good as ever. The place was very busy and rammed full of Millwall before their home match with Pompey. I had shared my table with a local and there was a little small talk before I left.

“Have a good day, mate.”

“And you. Goin’ football?”

“I am, yes, but not the same game as you. Chelsea vs. Burnley.”

Years ago, such an interaction might not have been so forthcoming, but things have relaxed a lot in the past couple of decades.

“Might see you in the topflight next season.”

“Yer. We’ll add something to that division.”

I thought to myself “you’re not wrong there, mate” as I squeezed past him and his mound of mash, pies and liquor.

On the way into London Bridge Station, the Portsmouth lot were just arriving, full of song, and I was surprised that there were no police, yet, on show. I have always had a little soft spot for Pompey, and I remembered a Frome lad, Rob, who supported them but sadly took his own life in the summer, a fact that I am still struggling to accept.

I had enjoyed my little dip into another corner of London; Bermondsey Street especially looks a lively stretch, full of pubs and cafes, all under the shadow of The Shard. It brought it home to me how London is smothered in football clubs, each with their own catchment areas, pre-match drinking regimes and habits, their own rituals, and their own rivalries. Imagine London with just two professional clubs; how dull would that be?

In the pub, I joined up with the lads, but all was not well. Jimmy the Greek was suffering with lower back pain, and Ian had pulled a calf muscle. As for me, after my traipse to and from underground stations and on to “Manze’s” I needed a sit-down.

The game against Burnley would mark the first appearance of the new shirt sponsor, IFS, an AI company, and Jimmy said, “it should be FFS” and I had a little chuckle.

AI, eh? I almost saw it coming. I must admit that I am not a fan of artificial intelligence, as I have already witnessed how it can be used to stir up hatred on social media. It also has a detrimental impact on the environment, using ridiculous amounts of water to cool its super servers, plus copious amounts of electricity of course. Will it eventually lead to employment losses? I think we all know the answer to that. But that’s a debate for another day.  Meanwhile, I am consciously trying to stay away from it.

However, I am sure that the people that run Chelsea Football Club will increase their use of AI as the future unfolds, especially in increasing revenue streams.

“How can we fleece as many possible punters as possible, while convincing them that we are doing them a favour?”

And I am sure AI has found its insidious way into assessing the agglomeration of data that exists in football these days.

“What is the most efficient way to score goals in football?”

I suspect we all know the answer to that one too; pass, pass, pass, wait for an opponent’s error, shoot but only when within ten yards of the goal.

Sorry, but in these days of fake everything, I prefer life and football with a little more authenticity. And fun.

In the pub, I gulped down two pints of refreshing “Diet Coke” and it was then time to depart. Alas, this was a bittersweet moment. The current landlords are moving away, and this was the last time that we would see Aga and her team. We all hoped our love affair with “The Eight Bells” can continue under the new regime.

Dear reader, it was a pitiful sight as the troops slowly ascended the stairs at Putney Bridge tube station, what with PD and Parky and their dodgy hips, Jimmy with the excruciating pain in his back, and Ian limping like he had been on the receiving end of a “difference of opinion” with Ronnie Harris.

Compared to them, I relatively flew up the three flights of stairs.

We liked the look of the team; we knew that Marc Cucurella was still out, and so his place was taken by Malo Gusto. I hoped that this would be a seamless adjustment, rather than a maladjusted one.

So, here we were :

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez

Joao Pedro

On the way into the Matthew Harding Upper, I had been thoroughly dismayed to see every single TV screen showing the England vs. Ireland rugby game.

“Why are they showing that crap?”

We were here for Chelsea. For football. Had Chelsea run out of Chelsea stuff to show the punters?

There was the usual pre-match routine, some of which felt right, but most of which still felt odd, artificial, and forced upon us.

Chelsea songs, crowd-surfing flags in the Matthew Harding, flags being waved in The Shed, flames in front of the West Stand, fireworks fizzing into the air. I am sure there was none of this prefabricated nonsense at Millwall.

The game began, but it again felt odd to see us attacking the Matthew Harding in the first half. While we were chattering away to ourselves, we took an early lead. And it came from un-likely move. Rather than passing to the nth degree, something that frustrates most of us, an incisive ball played early from Moises Caicedo that exploited an early gap in the Burnley defence. His ball was perfectly paced and placed for Pedro Neto to gather and then smack a low cross towards the six-yard box where Joao Pedro arrived to bundle the ball over the line.

We were up and celebrating as the scorer raced across to the far side.

But then, the rancid odour of VAR swept over Stamford Bridge and a potential handball was reviewed. Alan and I vented our displeasure. We had already spoken about the authentic nature of the matchday experience at Millwall, and the absence of VAR in the division below was referenced as we spoke about the differences between the two games being played out only a few miles apart.

I know a few fans of clubs in the Football League who absolutely love the fact that their games do not involve the passion killer of VAR. For that is what it is. It has muted the adrenalin rush of goals, as I always said it would.

Thankfully the goal stood.

We dominated the next twenty minutes of play and although we managed to create a reasonable supply of chances, much of our play was slow and methodical. Burnley had a couple of pot shots at our goal at The Shed.

A quarter of the match in, I noted to Alan that I hadn’t heard a peep from the Lancastrians in the far corner.

Shots from Enzo and Cole Palmer were either struck over or blocked.

It then went awry for ten minutes, and we lost what momentum we had developed, and just couldn’t carve open the Burnley defence. It felt that we were sitting on our laurels at a time when we really should have taken the game to them. It was a frustrating period.

Alan commented that it felt like we were waiting for them to score, as if we need an outside dynamic to inspire us and galvanise us.

A weak free kick from Marcus Edwards went wide of Robert Sanchez’ goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, Cole Palmer was presented with a one-on-one with Kyle Walker, a good old-fashioned sprint, with just daylight between the ball and the Burnley ‘keeper Martin Dubravka. Palmer raced ahead and shot early, but the ball was parried easily by the ‘keeper.

This was the last attacking threat of the first period, and such is our support these days, that Alan and I spent the closing moments debating whether or not we would get booed off at the break.

Thankfully, there was nothing.

At the break, I heard that Frome Town were 1-0 up at near neighbours Larkhall Athletic who play in Bath. On the Saturday before, the weekend of the Hull City game, I had watched my local team beat Brixham 2-0 at home to solidify our position at the top of our division. That night, PD, Glenn and I met up at the main music venue in town to see tribute acts to The Specials and The Jam. This was another lovely day of football and music, and over the course of it I chatted to three fellow members of the Oakfield Road Middle School team from 1976 to 1978. Fantastic.

The second half started with a jolt to wake us from our first-half stupor. Within the first few seconds, the ball was played forward by Joao Pedo to Palmer, but just as it seemed he was about to unleash a shot on goal, a leg of a defender swiped away at him. We hoped, optimistically, for a penalty but the referee Lewis Smith was having none of it.

On fifty-one minutes, sustained pressure on the Burnley defenders allowed Palmer to intricately set up Joao Pedro, but his shot was blocked. A shot from Neto was similarly blocked.

Would that second goal ever come?

On fifty-five minutes, a rare Burnley effort on goal, a strange looper that dropped like a stone at the far post, but the ball was ushered away.

I liked how we applauded Lesley Uguchukwu off as he was replaced by James Ward-Prowse.

I sometimes make a mental note of how soon into the game the various parts of Stamford Bridge’s home areas get it together and chant or sing as one. On this day in deepest SW6, that moment came on sixty minutes.

Bloody hell, what a disaster.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” – you know how it goes.

In Bath, near Solsbury Hill, Frome conceded an equaliser.

As we struggled to progressively move the ball towards its target, I moaned “is this fucking rugby? Aren’t we allowed to pass the ball forward?”

Frome then went 2-1 up.

Get in Dodge.

On seventy-two minutes, a clash in the middle of their half, and we watched in horror as Wesley Fofana was shown a yellow, his second of the day, and then of course a red.

Fofucksakefofana.

Ironically, maybe this would be the outside adversity we needed?

Liam Rosenior chose to replace Cole Palmer with Tosin Adarabioyo.

“Answers on a postcard.”

In this adversity, the crowd responded with another “Amazing Grace” – the loudest of the afternoon and my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.

On eighty minutes, more changes.

Jorrel Hato for Malo Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

I really wasn’t sure all these late changes would work in our favour. This seemed to be change for the sake of it. This seemed to be a panic reaction. Why not let those who had experienced the movement of the Burnley players, their strengths and weaknesses, throughout the entire game be trusted to see us over the line?

Meanwhile, Frome went 3-1 up.

On eighty-two minutes, a super dribble from Pedro Neto, but the shot was saved and the rebound from Hato went high and wide.

On eighty-four minutes, a great cross from the Burnley right was punched out at full stretch by a horizontal Sanchez.

“Well, I’ve never seen that before…”

More substitutions made me, and others no doubt, more nervous.

Josh Acheampong for Reece James, our captain, our bloody captain no less.

Mamadou Sarr for Pedro Neto.

So many late changes were madness.

Ashley Barnes header dropped onto the top of the net from a Ward-Prose free-kick.

Frome went 4-1 up, but I was ridiculously nervous by now. It seemed we were all expecting a late equaliser.

Six minutes of added time were signalled.

Burnley were awarded a corner after three of these minutes.

The whole stadium took a deep breath.

One of my pet hates of the game these days is the constant pushing, shoving, grappling, holding and – to use a well-used football term of late – “shithousery” that goes on in the moments before a corner is taken.

I just wish referees would clamp down on all this nonsense. It’s ugly, it’s pathetic, it detracts from the game.

Well, as Burnley waited to the corner from the far side, I witnessed no end of pushing and shoving, yet again, in the cramped six-yard box. But after all that, or perhaps because of it, and despite our late injection of height in our defence, the ball in from Ward-Prowse was met by a free leap and a free header from Zian Flemming.

The ball almost apologetically dropped into the goal.

Ugh.

What a desperate, but oh-so expected, moment.

I was crushed.

Unbelievably, two minutes later, a copycat corner from Ward-Prowse was met by yet another free header, this time by Jacob Bruun Larsen, but – thank the high heavens – the header flew over the bar.

In a mad final moment, the ball broke for Delap just outside the Burnley box, but his powerful effort flashed over the bar.

It was the very last kick of the game, and it felt like a final kick in the goolies.

How to sum up this match?

We had it in our hands in the first half, and for huge parts of the second half. But our reluctance to push on and grab more goals just infuriated everyone. The sending-off was a personal disaster for Fofana and our disciplinary record this season is utterly embarrassing. But oh, those late substitutions; instead of providing extra security and cover, they just added to the nervousness and confusion.

On a day of artificial intelligence, much of our play and many of our decisions reeked of real stupidity.

Liam Rosenior, until this one, has managed his charges well, and I think most Chelsea supporters have been surprisingly impressed. This one, though, was a shocker.

Let’s hope lessons are learned.

After a break of one week, we meet up at Arsenal and then embark on a crowded schedule of seven matches in just twenty-one days.

On we go.

Tales From A Half-Time Teardrop And Full Time Frustration

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 10 February 2026.

Back in December, we experienced the nightmare of away games; an 8.15pm kick-off at Elland Road, a shambolic 1-3 defeat and a return trip home that didn’t finish for me until 4am.

This time, the boots were on the other feet, so to speak. The travelling hordes from Yorkshire, at least, were presented with a slightly better – 7.30pm – kick-off time for this midweek game.

After the wet conditions at both Arsenal and at Wolves, we were met with another day of rain for this match at Stamford Bridge. On the journey east on the M4, I had encountered horrible driving conditions for virtually all the trip. The worst of the season? Undoubtedly. After an early rise at 4.45am, and an eight-hour shift at work, it was the last thing that I wanted. However, I knew how to cope; doped with some coffees before and during the three-hour drive, I made it.

I spent my pre-match traipsing down the North End Road, getting increasingly soaked with each step, and I carried out my usual two visits to “Koka” – bruschetta, chicken kebabs, one day I will complete the entire menu – and “Café Ole” – a decaf cappuccino.

When it was time to make a dash for Stamford Bridge, I noticed that nobody was obeying orders that were being barked out by the first set of stewards to display match tickets. It was simply too wet to bother. I brushed past them and immediately realised that their role on this sodden evening was becoming increasingly redundant.

I was inside, out of the rain, at 7pm.

Chelsea vs. Leeds, then, a rivalry from the ‘sixties and ‘seventies that still exists today. The first game at Stamford Bridge took place in 1928 – a Leeds win – but we then went on a run of only losing one game in twenty-four matches at home. This took us up to early in 1970 when Don Revie’s team won 5-2 at Stamford Bridge. However, we would have the final laugh that season. Since then, the Chelsea vs. Leeds United game at Stamford Bridge has been “streaky”,

In fifteen matches from 1970 to 1995, Leeds won seven, including four in a row. Within that stretch of games, though, were the wonderful days in 1984 and 1989 when home wins over the Yorkshire visitors resulted in promotion from the old Second Division.

Since 1996, Leeds have won just one in fourteen games at Stamford Bridge.

After the defeat in December, this seemed like a night of revenge to me.

I had a look at the team that Liam Rosenior had chosen.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Estevao Willian – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro

I had successfully smuggled my SLR into this game and hoped to capture some decent moments on film.

The game began with the teams in exact opposites of each other’s kits.

Us : blue / blue / white.

Then : white / white / blue.

In the first few glimpses, it looked like Enzo was drifting to the left, and Palmer was coming inside. I guessed there would be some fluidity throughout the evening.

It was a lively start from both teams, and Leeds surprised me with their early attacking intent. A couple of free kicks were headed away by Chelsea defenders.

There was an early airing of an off-putting chant from the Leeds’ support for Ethan Ampadu, the former blue, to the tune of “Agadoo.”

On eighteen minutes, we roared Young Josh on as he made a very old-fashioned run from deep down the right, taking four Leeds defenders with him, but the run petered out and the ball was lost. I wondered how much money he would be fined for that free-spirited run.

The foul count was increasing and there definitely seemed to be a lot more “niggle” in this game than in others. Two Chelsea players were booked, to be followed by two others from Leeds. There were memories of a 0-0 draw in 1997 when Leeds had two sent off.

On twenty minutes, I captured the moment when Joao Pedro controlled a beautiful flick from Enzo. Alas his finish was awry.

Just after, a poor free kick from Enzo.

However, on twenty-four minutes we won the ball via Acheampong, and some tight passing allowed Palmer to play a delightful ball to the on-rushing Joao Pedro. His exquisite lob over the Leeds ‘keeper Karl Darlow was to perfection.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 0

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

Chris, beside myself : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There is no doubt in my mind that the relationship between Palmer and Joao Pedro will be a huge part of any success that we might enjoy in the next few precious years; let’s hope they get to play together for an extended spell.

The reaction from the Leeds fans was not a surprise.

…“and shoot the Chelsea scum. Shoot the Chelsea scum.”

There was a lovely break from us, but a shot from Palmer at the end of it was surprisingly weak, and too close to their goalie. We enjoyed a nice period of play in the closing fifteen minutes of the half; some intricate and tricky stuff in the final third that lead to a mate, a Frome Town supporter, watching at home, to message me and say, “you are a lovely team to watch my friend.”

Are we? His synopsis surprised me and I probably concluded that I, like others, are sometimes reticent to praise our play which, at times, can look attractive and worthy of our name.

We continued on, looking to prise gaps in a resolute defence.

However, I did note a yawning chasm of space in the left-side of the Leeds midfield and defence that a central defender – I forget who – chose to ignore. A run into that space by Joao Pedro and a simple pass forward would have put Leeds under threat. But such is football these days that the central defender passed square, eating up time, and the chance was lost.

It is this lack of awareness of openings that sometimes present themselves that make my brain hurt. I yearned for a player to push that ball through. A free-thinker. A maverick.

Maybe next time.

A mesmerizing run by Estevao that I was happy to capture on film got us all salivating, but his shot was wildly off target.

The first half ended and I struggled to remember a genuine Sanchez save. We had played some pretty decent stuff and the feeling at the break was “more to follow.”

Among all this positivity, I was sad to hear Stamford Bridge so quiet. In all these match reports that I have been penning since 2008 – this is number nine-hundred-and-eight – me lamenting the lack of atmosphere at Stamford Bridge is a constant, and probably boring, feature.

Sigh.

Towards the end of the break, a couple of surreal moments to report. I spotted the match mascots Stamford and Bridget – I prefer the ‘eighties Stamford when he had a full mane and was a bit more of a rascal – grooving along to some dance music down below me in front of the West Lower, throwing some shapes, grooving.

They’ve come a long way, baby.

Then, I heard a voice that I immediately recognised. I asked Alan to listen to a sample during a track that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

“Listen, mate…Elizabeth Fraser.”

It had taken forty-three years, but I had at last heard the Cocteau Twins chanteuse at Stamford Bridge.

Elizabeth Fraser.

The voice.

At a Chelsea game.

Oh my.

It was a feint few bars, but my ears had somehow spotted it.

The sample was from “Teardop” by Massive Attack, from 1998, which featured the singer on vocals. And I was loving it.

It was a beautiful moment and seemed to crystalise the whole Chelsea and Leeds 1984 vibe into a present-day scenario. I became a fan of the Cocteau Twins in 1983/84 – their “Head Over Heels” album became the sondtrack of that greatest-ever season – and the 5-0 win over Leeds in April 1984, which included a Kerry Dixon hat-trick, was a defining moment.

It helped that Alan is a massive Cocteau Twins fan too, and Clive, alongside Alan, is also an admirer. Alan reminded me of the time that he had attended the Bromley vs. Solihull Moors Play-Off Final at Wembley in 2024 and just before the penalty shoot-out, “Teardrop” was played.

“Talk about emotion.”

Alan said that he knew at that moment that his team would win.

I enjoyed a similar Depeche Mode moment at Porto in 2021.

Music and football, eh?

At the break, Cucurella was replaced by Jorrel Hato.

Soon into the second half, Estevao slammed a low shot wide of the near post. We continued to dominate the game. Ten minutes into the second half a ball was sent forward into the inside right channel for Joao Pedro to chase. I took a photo of this but also happened to take one of a needless push on him by Jaka Bijol. It was an unnerving copy of the push on the same player by Verson Mosquera of Wolves in the last match. It was even in the same portion of the penalty box. The referee Robert Jones pointed to the spot.

Beautiful.

It took Palmer a while to be allowed to take the kick, but his shot was clean.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 0.

My SLR whizzed into action after I had yelled an initial roar of approval.

This was going well.

Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and Chelsea 2-0 up.

I briefly thought about a repeat of the 5-0 in 1984.

On the hour, Chelsea were camped in the Leeds box as shots pinballed in and around the six-yard box, but the Leeds goal lead a charmed life, and they escaped without another goal being scored.

Pedro Neto replaced Estevao, a shame.

Some friends in the US and I had been quietly “WhatsApping” each other, and one mate joined in after being engaged in a work meeting.

“How are we looking?”

“Comfortable.”

And we were. At this point in time, with half an hour still to go, I was hoping for more goals.

Alas, alas, alas…on sixty-four minutes, a ridiculously clumsy tackle by Caicedo on the wonderfully named Jayden Bogle, and a penalty was signalled.

Lukas Nmecha slotted past Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 1 Leeds United 2.

The atmosphere was a bit riper now and Chelsea were coerced into replying to a few Leeds chants.

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

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

 “We’re Yorkshire’s Republican Army, we’re barmy, wherever we go.”

“Carefree, wherever you may be.”

“Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh, Yaakshuh.”

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds, Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

On seventy-three minutes, there was sadly another calamity in our box. Young Josh lost the ball, Leeds put pressure on us and despite what looked like several chances to swipe the ball away, nobody did. This was hard to watch.

“Clear it!”

Somehow, Noah Okafor pounced to push the ball home.

Bollocks.

Chelsea 2 Leeds United 2.

The Leeds support now roared.

“Marching on together.”

On seventy-eight minutes, two substitutions.

Wesley Fofana for Acheampong.

Liam Delap for Santos.

I lost count of the number of times that Pedro Neto cut back onto his left foot out on the far touchline and attempted to connect with a target man. But there was no Kerry Dixon leading the line here, and I was never ever convinced that either Delap or Joao Pedro would connect. On one occasion his cross evaded everybody and just dropped past the far post. However, as the crosses were pumped in from both Neto on the right and Palmer on the left, more often than not they were headed out by Leeds defenders and Chelsea strikers alike.

But we kept trying.

On eighty-seven minutes, an amazing piece of close skill by Palmer resulted in a low cross but Delap touched it just wide.

Joao Pedro then hit the bar with a header from a Hato cross; he was stretching from the start and just could not get over the ball.

We were howling in pain by now.

But I kept hearing one voice behind me being overly obnoxious and using the “C” word as if it was going out of fashion. It seemed to me that this one fan was singling out individual players too.

Modern fans, eh?

In injury time, an impudent backheel from Gusto set up Caicedo who flashed the ball low into the box. We saw Palmer arrive.

This was it then?

Teardrops of joy at the end of this crazy game?

No.

The ball was slammed over the bar from just two yards.

Howls again.

I took a photo of a disbelieving Palmer who had ended up in the net, unlike the ball.

And then I heard it again.

“You cnut.”

That was it. I turned around and glowered at the bloke.

I decided that I had to say something.

Or rather, I barked at him.

“Hey, that’s Cole Palmer. Don’t call him a cnut.”

There was a stare down.

Eyeballs.

I don’t often get into it with fellow supporters, but I felt my words were vindicated.

Just after, the whistle went. We could hardly believe what we had just witnessed. The Leeds recovery – gifted to them by us – was bad enough, but that Palmer miss was difficult to comprehend.

A teardop at half-time and dropped points at full time.

How frustrating.

I exited the stadium – it was still raining of course – and I bumped into Huddersfield Mick along the Fulham Road.

He was fuming.

He scowled as he said, “bloody Northerners.”

I had to laugh.

“Yeah, Yorkshire bastards.”

He smiled.

“That’s five points we’ve dropped against them this season, Mick.”

“I’m off for a pint in The Cock.”

“Wish I could join you.”

Thankfully there was little traffic delay, and I was back home at 12.30am, which was far better than 2.20am the preceding Tuesday on the way back from Arsenal.

There’s no trip to Hull and back for me, so my next game is at home to Burnley on Saturday 21 February.

See you there.

Tales From Wet Wolverhampton

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Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Us?

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

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevor Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Cole Palmer

Joao Pedro  

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

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton.”

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

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

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

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

Palmer slotted home past Jose Sa.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.

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

Chris : “Come on My Friend Stan.”

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

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

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

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

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

This was nice stuff. We were playing well.

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

Another penalty.

Another Palmer strike, this time the other way.

Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

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

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

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

Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Game over, surely?

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

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

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

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

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

That raised a smile from me.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes I hate my footballing sixth sense.

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

Bollocks. Here we go.

Fifty-four minutes were on the clock.

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

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

“Premier League. Corrupt as fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

With fifteen minutes to go, a double substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-four minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Santos.

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

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

We “held on?” Yes, it seemed like it.

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

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

On Tuesday, Leeds United visit Stamford Bridge.

…just writing those words.

Tales From Much Ado About Nothing

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.

What did this mean?

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

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

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

Let’s leave that there, eh?

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

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

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

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

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

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

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

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

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

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

The teams eventually appeared.

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

Us?

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

In goal?

Easy, Robert Sanchez.

It then got a little difficult.

It looked like three central defenders.

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

We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.

OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.

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

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

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

Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, we were still in this tie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only we could hit the bloody target.

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

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

“Fucking embarrassing”.

The bloke in front agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

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

On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.

Fackinell.

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

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

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

We continued on.

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

I spotted who was free on the right.

“Oh no, Havertz.”

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

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

Bollocks.

The referee blew up, and that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I eventually reached home at 2.20am.

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

I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.

4.30am to 3.30am.

Bloody hell, Chelsea.

Tales From A Perfect Day

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 31 January 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chris, Alan, Glenn, PD.

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

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

Frome Town 73.

Malvern Town 62.

Portishead Town 60.

Winchester City 58.

Shaftesbury 54.

We are also top of the home attendance figures too.

Frome Town 499.

Melksham Town 392.

Malvern Town 343.

Portishead Town 336.

Winchester City 323.

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

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Jorrel Hato

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Jamie Gittens – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

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

“COME ON CHELS.”

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

Bollocks.

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

“1-0 to the Cockney Boys.”

Ugh.

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

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

I commented to Alan “Gittens is hard work.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Cockneys and the Mockneys roared again.

Another ugh.

This was awful.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

The Irons continued.

“Build it up with Claret and Blue.”

Just horrible.

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

Won 20

Drew 6

Lost 4

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

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

What a terrible sight.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

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

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

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

There were, unsurprisingly, three changes at the break.

Wesley Fofana for Badiashile.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Joao Pedro for Garnacho.

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

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

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

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

GET IN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The net rippled.

What a goal.

What a moment.

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

Bloody hell.

Then VAR stepped in.

The goal stood.

I didn’t cheer the VAR decision.

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

On eighty-one minutes, Reece James replaced Gusto.

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

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

Fackinell.

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

Could we do it?

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

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

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some of them worked. I hope you like them.

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

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

Soon after, the whistle blew.

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

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

Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

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

It had been a bloody perfect day.

Oh and – this:

Played 31

Won 21

Drew 6

Lost 4

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

I will see six thousand of you there.

Outside And Inside The Pubs Of Hammersmith And Fulham

Outside And Inside Stamford Bridge.

The Birthday Boy With Garry Stanley.