Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

In my international break, I saw just one match and it unsurprisingly featured my local team Frome Town. On Tuesday 10 October, I travelled the short distance to the former mining town of Paulton for a local derby of our own. Frome coasted to a 2-0 lead at the break, playing some nice stuff. Then, a down turn in events and we conceded two goals by the halfway point of the game and we were hanging on. With ten minutes to go I said to a mate “I’ll take the draw” as I couldn’t see us scoring. With six minutes to go, it was still 2-2.  The final score? Paulton Rovers 2 Frome Town 7. It was, unquestionably, the most ridiculous game that I had ever seen. Admittedly the second-half had an extra twelve minutes, but even so. It was a demented result. Dodge are in a fine run of form at the moment.

With no European football to bolster our fixture list this autumn, this was turning into a very regular start to the season for Chelsea Football Club; four games in August, four games in September, four games in October, four games in November. Our London derby at home to Arsenal would be the third of the four in October. It was our first game in a fortnight.

On the walk towards the stadium at around 4.45pm, with the sky full of rain, free programmes were being handed out. The programmes were billed as a “collectors’ edition” in the way that many normal products are over-hyped these days. It was only a programme, albeit a free one, and I couldn’t really see it being worth much in the future. But it was a decent gesture by the new kit sponsors “Infinite Athlete” – whoever they are – and was perhaps an apology-of-sorts for not arriving on the scene a little sooner. If I was offered £1,000, I would struggle to describe the services that they bring to the world, and my world in particular. The cover was different to the usual design this season (maybe that is what made it so collectable, if not delectable) and it featured match facts in the style of a ticker-tape at the top of the cover.

It didn’t look much like a match programme at all.

The first stat mentioned that this would be the two-hundred and eighth game between the two sides. Chelsea have played no team more often. It was, in fact, the first-ever top-level London derby, played at Stamford Bridge on 11 September 1907, when the gunners were still a south London team called Woolwich Arsenal. The game ended up with Chelsea winning 2-1.

So, really, forget about the rest, this is the daddy of all London derbies.

This edition would be my seventy-first such game across all competitions and venues and, thus, it would mean that I would have seen just under thirty-five percent of all Chelsea versus Arsenal games. This doesn’t include the game I saw in Beijing as Chelsea have not included that in their total.

Gulp.

I got duly drenched on the walk to the turnstiles and I soon wanted to take my thin rain jacket off once I had reached my seat. It was a mild evening in SW6 and I would watch the entire match wearing just a sweatshirt, a Boca one in grey, blue and yellow, and it tied in nicely against the red and white of Arsenal and River. In the match programme, I would later read that our manager Mauricio Pochettino favoured Racing as a boy before he started playing for Newell’s Old Boys.

As kick-off approached at 5.30pm, the weather deteriorated further. The ground filled up slowly and steadily, but I had a feeling that that those watching in the front rows would be getting drenched. We had played cat-and-mouse with the rain all day long. We had set off at around 9am but after picking up the last of the passengers – Parky – I was sent on a little diversion caused by the flooding of a road near Melksham. On the drive to London, the skies were intermittently cloudy then clear. Thankfully, my walk to Stamford Bridge at around midday and then the pub at around 2pm was during a couple of dry spells.

I remembered that Parky’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge was against Arsenal, way back in 1961 – another 2-1 win – on the same day that Parky’s hero Jimmy greaves was playing for England in the 9-3 walloping of Scotland. Greaves scored his usual three.

I had spoken to Ron about his childhood in Hackney and how he used to be taken to Highbury by his Arsenal-mad father as a child. They would watch first-team and reserve team games in the ‘fifties, taking a bus from their pre-fab to watch their local team play. I asked if it felt odd playing against the team that he had supported as a child, and in that pragmatic and down-to-Earth way of his, he just shrugged his shoulders and dismissed such silliness.

It’s likely that PD’s first-ever Chelsea and Arsenal encounter was the same as mine; that game at Highbury in 1984. It is so famous that a whole book was written about it.

The rain still fell. Stamford Bridge had rarely looked gloomier. Over in the away section, one bright yellow Arsenal flag was draped over the Shed balcony. It shone like a beacon, but hopefully not as a metaphor for the away team as the match would develop.

The teams appeared just as a huge banner honouring the recently-retired Eden Hazard floated over heads down to my left. On the day before the anniversary of his passing, I would have preferred a flag with the image of Matthew Harding being passed from east to west in the stand that bears his name.

Before the kick-off, the stadium stood silent in remembrance of those killed in Israel and the Gaza Strip.

Fuck war.

To add to the sombre tone of the day, there had been two sad pieces of news that we encountered in the pub beforehand. The lads who sit at a table near us were gathered around and I spotted a photo of one of their crew placed on the adjacent table. Sadly, “Hillsy” had passed away last Sunday, the victim of a single heart-attack, and all of us remembered his cheery manner on many occasions in “The Eight Bells”. We all signed a shirt of remembrance.

Later, the news filtered through that Sir Bobby Charlton had died. I was only looking at a recent photo of him a day or so ago. Ah, that was some sad news. Growing up in the early ‘seventies there was nobody bigger, nobody better, nobody more famous than Bobby Charlton. I thought back to two games.

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Bobby Charlton’s last-ever game for United was played out at a packed three-sided Stamford Bridge. I suspect that a good 15,000 of the 44,000 present were United fans. I remember that crazy Osgood goal and the shrug to the TV camera. Charlton’s last-ever United game seemed a seismic moment in time. For United, maybe it was. They were relegated twelve months later.

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

Out on the Old Trafford forecourt, the scene of much naughtiness over the years, I spotted Sir Bobby Charlton before the game looking dapper in a light grey suit and United tie. The great man walked straight across my path. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I was giddy with excitement as I reached out to shake his hand. It was probably my favourite non-Chelsea football moment of all.

In the packed pub, we had raised our glasses in memory of Sir Bobby Charlton.

As the minute of silence finished – not a sound from the four-sided Samford Bridge in 2023 – I wondered if Sir Bobby would be remembered too.

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

Jorginho would be passing the ball square in their midfield while Havertz was on their bench, perhaps dreaming of a night in Porto and another one in Abu Dhabi.

This would be a big test for our fledgling team. Our club, actually, even feels like a fledgling club at the moment too.

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

The rain was lashing down and despite all available lights being switched to the max, visibility of the action down at The Shed was pretty poor. As the game began, a 5.30pm start, the first burst of action took place at that end. A fine ball from Thiago Silva found Raheem Sterling who pushed the ball into the box. A shot from Conor Gallagher was blocked and a follow-up from Enzo Fernandez was blazed over.

We absolutely dominated everything in the opening period as the rain continued to fall. There was an eerie and ethereal feel to the evening; night not yet fallen, but so dark and moody. I imagined a scene from a century ago, another London derby, the air thick with London fog and mist and cigarette smoke drifting over the packed terraces.

Then, approaching fifteen minutes of play, a superb counter-attack that began wide left and finished wide right. Sterling struck the ball in towards Mykhailo Mudryk, whose glancing header had initiated the move in the defensive third, and he threw himself at the ball. There was a huge shout from The Shed – for what I do not know – but it soon became apparent that those closer to the action had spotted an Arsenal handball (or a handy Arseball, depending on the outcome of the imminent VAR).

We waited.

Penalty.

Sterling grabbed the ball, but the confident Palmer wanted it too.

The youngster won that battle and calmly slotted the ball home, David Raya left flat-footed and beaten.

The place roared as Palmer celebrated in front of the silent away fans. I caught the slide on his knees through a million raindrops.

We continued to purr, but there were two totally unexpected errors by Thiago Silva.

“That’s his last two errors this season” I whispered to Clive.

Arsenal, a rare-attack, moved forward down below us but a flicked effort from Declan Rice was hardly worth bothering about.

They hadn’t settled at all.

There was a fantastic old-fashioned run up the right-wing, a full-length battle between Malo Gusto – attacking with, er, gusto – and Gabriel Martinelli, that ended with a foul on our energetic right-back.

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

Clive : “No need to blast those. Jimmy Greaves would have just passed that into the goal.”

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

Chris : “I can just see Bobby Charlton drilling that in on the floor.”

Although not at the very highest end of the noise scale, the atmosphere was at times reassuringly loud. There were the usual barbs aimed at Arsenal and their lack of success on the international stage.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

Et cetera.

A beautiful thrusting run from Gallagher set up Palmer, who darted and dived in front of the Arsenal defence. His deft shot was a lot nearer the target than that of Rice, and his effort seemed to graze the far post on its way past.

Then, another delightful move down our right; such sweet movement, from Silva to Palmer, to the effervescent Sterling, but then a snapped shot from Gusto that again flew over.

But this was lovely stuff. Top marks especially for Gallagher, Gusto and Palmer. Oh, and Cucarella, let’s not forget him, easily our most improved player over the past month.

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

Just before the end of the break, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared on the large TV screens and we applauded his memory.

Munich survivor. World Cup winner. European Cup winner. Night of the realm.

Rest In Peace.

Soon into the second-half, the rain still falling but not so hard, I was lamenting that Mudryk, save the occasional flash, was having a quiet game. Then, Gallagher stole the ball from an Arsenal nonentity, and raced up the wing. I had a perfect view as Mudryk – yes, him – caught up with Gallagher and effectively took the ball off him. The smile on Conor’s face as the Ukrainian took the ball on is priceless. He advanced a little, then slowed, then chipped the ball goal wards.

By the time I had stopped snapping, the ball had dropped into the net, finding that few square feet of space between bar and the hapless Raya.

GET IN!

I immediately thought back to Gianfranco Zola’s last-ever goal for us versus Everton in 2003 from roughly the same spot.

I roared loudly but kept an eye on where the scorer was running.

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

Sadly, the photos of his clipped chip / lob / shot and the ball dropping in are too blurred to share.

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

At last, we were looking like we were a team, a proper team, knowing when to soak up pressure, when to break, with skilful players moving for each other. God, it had been a long time coming.

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

A Sanchez-style mess of a clearance by Raya almost allowed Palmer to make it three, but his effort was then blocked by the ‘keeper when it looked easier to score.

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

Arsenal enjoyed a few efforts on goal, mainly from free-kicks and corners, but we held firm. Thiago Silva was a colossus.

Then, a calamity. On seventy-seven minutes, a pass from Sanchez to Enzo was underhit, and Rice swept the ball into the empty net from thirty-five yards.

Bollocks.

Mikel Arteta had rung some changes. Jorginho was replaced, no applause, no boos, and then Havertz appeared, a few boos, no applause.

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

After staying miserable and quiet all day long, the away supporters were finally roused. It had been a very poor performance from Arsenal’s choir, the quietest by a major club for many a year.

We were now hanging on. Stamford Bridge seemed engulfed in nerves. I was kicking every ball and other clichés.

“COME ON CHELS.”

On eighty-four minutes, another calamity. A deep cross from the right from the previously quiet Bukayo Saka found an unmarked Trossard at the far stick. Through the mire, it looked like our defenders had switched off.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

Ironically, one song now dominated, but one that they had stolen lock stock and barrel from Liverpool, a song that detailed that club’s quite considerable success in Europe.

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

“We won the league at Anfield. We won it at the Lane, Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford. No one can say the same. Mikel Arteta’s army. We’re Arsenal through and through. We’ll sing it in the North Bank. And in the Clock End too.”

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

But it’s the stealing of a rival’s song that I found a little squeamish. Ugh.

Then, substitute Eddie Nketiah latched on to a ball played through the channel and – memories of Nwankwo fucking Kanu – the shot dropped just past the far post.

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

A late low shot from Jackson was saved by Raya, the ‘keeper desperately hanging on to the ball on the greasy surface.

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

“I would have taken a draw before the game began. But this feels like a loss.”

But this was a really decent performance. Many commented that it was the most cohesive football that we have played in two years or so. My God, it certainly felt like it. And yet we have some really testing games to come in the next couple of months. I still project us to finish around eighth, but after the Arsenal game, perhaps I can be a little more optimistic.

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.

Rest In Peace