Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 2 September 2023.

…there were some positives from this day.

1. I loved a very enjoyable pre-game in “The Eight Bells” alongside friends from not only England but Scotland, Norway and France.
2. I didn’t get a parking ticket.
3. We reached Reading Services just in time to load up on “£2” pasties from “West Cornwall Pasty Company” as it prepared to close.
4. I didn’t watch “Match Of The Day.”
5. Frome Town won an FA Cup tie at home to Clevedon Town in front of a healthy gate of 478.

Was everything else bleak?

…well.

After two home wins against Luton Town and AFC Wimbledon, our fledgling season seemed to be up-and-running, and the third home game in nine days against Nottingham Forest looked like one that we could win. After that, there would be a break due to something called international football, whatever that is, before the next match on Sunday 17 September in Bournemouth.

This represented a chance to consolidate, then, and to settle the nerves. As I said to the chaps on the way to London “a win will just keep them off our backs.”

The weather improved throughout the day, from misty overcast skies in the West Of England, to a sunny day that gradually emerged in London SW6. We were now in September, and there was a nice and relaxing feel to the morning as I hopped from Fulham Broadway to café to pub. I joined PD and Parky in “The Eight Bells” at around 11.15am. It was surprisingly quiet.

As I had descended the steps at “Putney Bridge” tube, there was a chap in front of me wearing a grey Stone Island pullover. Knowing that label’s particularly notoriety, every time I see the infamous badge, I always wonder if the wearer is “football” at all. After all, there must be some normal gentlemen, not in the least bothered about Stone Island’s association with football violence over the last thirty-five years; just normal chaps, probably fashion conscious, looking for nice clothes, blissfully unaware. And then there must be those, like me on occasion – I bought my first one in around 1998 – who love the football, love the clothes but can’t be arsed with the fighting. I must have bought around ten pieces over the years, but nothing for fifteen years, and they used to mix in well with my other match-going gear, especially in winter. Then there are those who sport the badge and are indeed members of the hooligan fraternity, or at least – this might be the key – want to be.

I remember the days when a small group of us used to email each other, before Messenger and WhatsApp appeared – and the time that we were making plans on the Friday for the trip to Bolton for “that game” on the Saturday in 2005, I jokingly suggested “dress code : Stonies” and, lo and behold, this gathered momentum.

These days I don’t wear my existing SI stuff at football because it’s not worth the attention from the police nor opposition fans alike. I often used to buy a few heavily discounted SI bits at “Century 21” in New York, but my last such purchase was probably way back in around 2006.

Anyway, I wondered to what category this chap belonged.

Alongside PD and Parky at our usual table was Salisbury Steve, plus Rich and Matt from Edinburgh. We were soon to be joined by a growing band of Norwegian supporters, including a few season ticket holders, who we have got to know over the past year. There’s Even, Hans, Roy – originally drawn in by my blog I believe – and a few more too. I met Eirik, from way up in Trondheim, for the first time and he too writes a football blog. We got on famously, and shared many a laugh. Soon into the session, Mr. Grey Stoney joined us, and I explained that I had seen him earlier and wondered if he was, indeed, “football.” I asked his name, and he replied “Ooh-osteener-son-eye-ah.”

I replied : “fuck that, I’ll just call you Dave.”

Originally the table that the seven Norwegians were camped around was reserved for some others from midday. But they never showed up. I joked that if they did, they might complain that the booth and adjacent seats smelled, offputtingly, of herring.

Eirik is midway through writing a book about the 1970 FA Cup Final, a subject close to all of our hearts. I told, for maybe the 1,243^rd time in my life, how the 1970 Cup Final made me a Chelsea fan.

Outside, I spoke briefly with Dave, the guy I mentioned in the Luton blog who travels to away games in a specially-provided van that allows his wheelchair to be loaded. He was, of course, fuming to hear of the club’s decision. It’s not as if Chelsea send a huge fleet of coaches to away games. He reckoned two per game. I would briefly chat to Cathy inside the ground and she updated this to “four for big games.” Either way, it’s a drop in the ocean. I hope the club have an about-turn on this.

The usual “Kent Lot” were not in attendance due to rail strikes, which sadly coincided with the introduction of an increased reach of the “low emission zone” which would put off many from travelling in to London. The pub did seem a little quieter than usual.

I then spent some time talking to Ollie, who had just bought a 1989 shirt from Steve’s stall at Fulham Broadway. Steve had mentioned to me that “there’s a French guy looking for you earlier” and I soon realised it was Ollie. While I was there, I explained to Steve, who lives in nearby Evercreech in Somerset, why Frome is called “Dodge.” While on the subject, I added that the nearby towns of Trowbridge and Bruton are known locally as “Trow Vegas” and “Brutopia” respectfully.

Ollie told me how he had season tickets at Le Havre for many years, alongside his father, and how he travelled extensively around France to see them. Famously, we played Le Havre in 1992/93 in “The Cross Channel Trophy” with the first leg at Stamford Bridge in October 1992 and the away leg in France in April 1993. It was the first game that I could ever remember Chelsea travelling en masse to a game in Europe. There was inevitably some fighting. Stone Island garments were probably at the fore. Ollie, for the past fifteen years, is now resolutely Chelsea. It’s always nice to see him.

At 2pm, it was time to head to the game.

We heard some Forest songs emanating from the carriage behind us, and as we waited patiently in line at Fulham Broadway for the lift, I saw one particularly loud, young, Forest fan sporting no colours, but who was wearing a green Stone Island top and who was bellowing out a chant.

The others made their way in. I waited to choose my moment, since smuggling my SLR into Chelsea this season has reached an advanced level of difficulty.

Anyway, I was successful.

Inside, the sun had added an extra dimension to the red-clad Forest fans, wearing more replica shirts than you normally see at Chelsea, but their shirt this season really is a thing of beauty, harking back to when they wore Adidas on their travels around the UK and Europe.

Both of these clubs are European Champions twice-over and share a common bond.

Nottingham Forest won their first European Cup in Munich in 1979.

Chelsea won our first European Cup in Munich in 2012.

Trevor Francis, the match-winner in 1979, passed away in July, a decent man, and a really sad loss.

In front of the West Stand stood a gaggle of around twenty spectators. These fools paid extra to be able to watch the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from a few yards away. I groaned, and complained to John, another disabled lad who will suffer if the away coach subsidy is taken away.

“Look at them. Just look at them. Paying extra to be able to see the players up close. That’s not football.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Chelsea lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Caceido – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or did they?

I have spent an inordinate amount of my time this season, especially in the first ten minutes of each match, trying to work out if we are playing three, four or five at the back. In the match programmes, the four games played thus far, state a four at the back. In the pre-match news about the selection for the Forest game, the formation is given as 3-5-2, yet in the eventual match report after it is given as 4-3-3.

Confusion reigns, but hopefully not for the players eh?

Whatever, this site isn’t for excessive and arid chat about formations and tactics. Go elsewhere for that. This, as the Norwegians seem to appreciate, is for everything else.

Forest must have won the toss and elected to attack The Shed in the first-half, the pesky buggers. I immediately sensed a problem.

At 3pm, the Munich Men kicked-off.

Within the first minute, we had twice rattled the Forest defence with early efforts from Nicolas Jackson, a crowd favourite now, and Raheem Sterling, who is increasing in popularity, albeit slowly.

As the game took shape, it seemed clear to me that Ben Chilwell was playing as a left-winger. There, that’s that solved. Jackson showed good movement in the opening period, a pleasing sign, so different from the immobile forwards of last season.

Unsurprisingly, the away contingent of three-thousand was making all of the noise, aided by songs from Wings, Status Quo and Spandau Ballet.

I thought that we started pretty decently, and despite an odd stoppage that the viewing millions were no doubt informed about but we were not – sound familiar? – we began to create a few chances. Conor Gallagher jinked inside and smashed one just wide. Malo Gusto on the right was properly involved in this game and was linking well with Gallagher and Sterling.

The visitors enjoyed a few breaks, a few free-kicks, and came close on a couple of occasions. Taiwo Awonyi, a handful last season, looked especially dangerous. We looked in control, though, but as the minutes rolled past, I kept thinking that we had yet to make the Forest ‘keeper really work.

There were a few rallying calls from us in the Matthew Harding, I joined in, and I suddenly remembered what my main role of the day was…it wasn’t to photograph the action, nor take quirky shots of the stadium, nor to quickly type up notes from the game on my ‘phone, it was in fact to support the team.

Thinking : “Come on Chris, don’t become the person you hate. Sing up.”

I leaned back and spoke to Clive.

“The first few games of this season have already been more enjoyable than all of last season.”

“That’s weird, PD just said exactly the same.”

There had been strong running from Gallagher throughout the half; tons of energy, plenty of tackles, plenty of blocks, a decent game.

“Ah to have a ball-winning midfielder, Al.”

Al spoke about Tottenham’s alleged interest in Gallagher, and Sky TV’s talking up of this non-story.

“Makes you laugh. Tottenham are considering a bid for Conor Gallagher. And I’m considering going on a diet.”

I howled.

However, the first-half ended almost apologetically, with a Chilwell cross just evading both Sterling and Jackson.

The first-half fizzled out.

After just three minutes of the second-half, Moises Caicedo gave the ball away just inside our half and the ball was moved quickly to former Manchester United striker Anthony Elanga, who surprisingly easily ran through our defence and slotted the ball in beyond the flat dive of Robert Sanchez in our goal.

Bollocks.

It was the visitors’ very first shot on target.

Fackinell.

The support tried to stir our players. Enzo, who had been rather quiet, slid a perfectly-weighted ball between two defenders for Chilwell, but his cross was poor.

A fine move on fifty-five minutes down the right fed in Jackson but a last ditch tackle saved Forest.

On sixty-two minutes, two substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Chilwell.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

I was amazed that Conor was taken off. I had liked the look of Cole Palmer when he played against us at City in the league last May. Little did I think he would be playing for us in four months. He was involved, and didn’t shy away from receiving the ball, but our play in general went from bad to worse.

On seventy-seven minutes, two more changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gusto.

Ian Maatsen for Caicedo.

Gusto had played well. Maybe he was tiring.

The rest of the second-half, played out before a raucous away corner and an increasingly docile yet irritated home support, was memorable for wayward slashes at goal from many.

We could hardly believe it when a low cross from Sterling on the right, after a fine pass from Palmer, tee’d things up just right for Jackson but he inexplicably lifted it over the bar from the edge of the six-yard box.

One final chance saw the poor Sterling slash a low shot well wide from an angle after a decent set up by Jackson.

There were boos at the end.

In previous years, this would have annoyed me, but on this occasion I didn’t seem to care one way or the other, which definitely worried me.

Don’t I care anymore?

I do, but I probably care less.

Outside, we slid past the travelling Forest fans. They were waiting to step back inside the coaches on the Fulham Road, walking back to the tube and walking back to parked cars. They were full of song and joy. A few were a bit lary but, deep down, I understood. I kinda approved. I almost envied them; a day out in the capital, an unexpected away win – their first at Chelsea since January 1995, I remember it, two goals from Stan Bloody Collymore – and every right to be loud and proud. I’d rather have a noisy mob of lary lads to spice things up at football than row upon row of docile and distanced spectators.

We began walking back to Bramber Road. The sun was still hot. I was feeling a little tired. I then looked up and saw Mr. Green Stoney – the Forest lad from earlier – getting rounded up by two of Fulham’s finest.

I silently tut-tutted and smirked.

Did the man attract the attention or did the badge attract the attention? A philosophical debate for another time perhaps.

I made it home at just after 9pm. It had been another long day.

At the start of this season, I secretly predicted us to finish eighth.

Higher or lower?

We’ll see.

We have a fortnight off now. Next weekend, I am heading over to Italy for a little break, but we will reconvene at the Vitality Stadium in Bournemouth for a 2pm kick-off.

Bring your bucket and spade, don’t be late.

On The Fulham Road

It’s All Gone Blue

Four European Cups Between Us

Another Time, Another Place

Eirik

Om Eirik Havdahl