Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 17 February 2024.

I left work on Friday afternoon with a decent weekend lined up. There was a non-league local derby involving teams from two towns just eight miles apart on that Friday. On the following evening there was a match involving two powerhouses of the modern game who were both the European Cup winners and the World Club champions in 2021 and 2023.

Football can be a varied beast.

First up, Westbury United versus Frome Town. This season, the race for the automatic promotion spot in the Southern League First Division South looks like being contested by Wimborne Town, near Bournemouth, Cribbs in Bristol and Frome Town. It is very tight at the top. There is then a keen fight for the four play-off positions too. I can see it all going down to the wire.

Westbury Town are a recent addition to the division, which is seven levels below the FA Premier League. 2022/23 was their inaugural season at this level and their highest-ever level since their formation in 1920. I was unable to attend either of last season’s games. Suffice to say I was pretty excited to be heading over the Somerset / Wiltshire border for my first-ever visit to the club’s Meadow Lane stadium, albeit as excited as a fifty-eight-year-old football fancier could be.

I used to drive past Westbury United’s ground for many years when I worked in the town. I parked up in a roomy car park adjacent to the ground and was soon chatting to a few of the many Frome regulars that had made the short trip to the game. Last season, the attendance was a hefty 950, a number that shocked me at the time. I hoped for another high number in 2023/24. It was nice to have a brief chat with my Chelsea mate Mark who I had not seen for a while. He lives in the town and used to run the clubhouse. He was proudly wearing a green and black Westbury United ski-hat.

Meadow Lane is a neat ground, but most of the facilities are cramped into one-corner giving it an odd feel. There are two covered stands; one with seats, one without. A former girlfriend lives in a little cul-de-sac just behind the northern goal. One of her sons used to play for the team. The current team is managed by former Frome player Ricky Hulbert.

Unfortunately, despite having much possession, Frome conceded two goals in the first-half. The first was a well-worked corner that caught us by surprise, with a low shot by the wonderfully-named Harvey Flippance catching us all out. A “Worldy” from the equally impressively named Jasper Jones gave the home team a 2-0 lead.

Changes were made in the second-half and the visitors soon replied with a goal. A tap-in from club favourite Jon Davies, on his 250th game for the club, put us right back in it. The visitors completely dominated the second-half. We stretched the home team and kept probing. Westbury had their lumpy central defender Sean Keet sent off for two yellows and soon after substitute Sam Meakes broke away and slotted home an equaliser on eighty-three minutes.

The intensity increased, and Frome kept attacking. However, a great save from Town ‘keeper Kyle Philips kept the game alive. In the last minute of the five added minutes, Frome were awarded a free-kick in a central location, a little further in than Enzo against Villa.

This was it. Now or never.

Jon Davies took aim and clipped a magnificent into the top left-hand corner of the goal, the Westbury ‘keeper beaten.

Westbury 2 Frome Town 3.

The visiting support erupted.

The players reeled away in ecstasy and the travelling Frome support let off a few red flares, as they had done at kick-off.

What a moment.

It was such a high, the absolute top note of an increasingly entrancing season as a Frome Town supporter. The smiles were wide among the excellent gate of 783.

Westbury’s average gate this season is at the 235 mark and the previous high was 462 against another local team, from the town where I currently work, Melksham. You can draw your own conclusions as to how many of the 783 attendance were from Dodge.

I drove home a very happy man and I woke up – after a much-needed lie-in on Saturday – a very happy man too.

I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am and Parky from his village between Trowbridge and Melksham at around 10.30am.

We were on our way to Manchester.

Rain was forecast later in the day, what a surprise, but the journey up was dry. Despite me fearing the worst at the Etihad, my mind was full of the pleasure of the previous night. Whatever would be would be in Manchester. I had already had my rush of football-related endorphins for this weekend.

All four of us were glumly pragmatic about our chances at City.

Glenn : “I’d take a 2-0 loss.”

My comment was even worse.

I suggested that “don’t worry about a thing” might well be sung later in the afternoon with a hint of irony.

This was another pre-Villa vibe. I really did not fancy our chances.

We hit a little traffic, unfortunately, over the last few miles of the M6, but pulled into our usual feeding station, “The Windmill” at Tabley at around 1.45pm.

We ordered some food – three of us went old school and ordered liver, bacon and onions…magnificent – and we were joined by our Chelsea pals PJ and Brian, with a lad called Lee that we had not met before. There was much laughter and piss-taking, but sadly nobody gave us much of a hope against City. Typically, the heavens opened while we were in the boozer. Sigh.

I set off for the Etihad at 3.45pm. This is a familiar route these days. In past the airport, around the M60 Orbital, through Stockport, then a jagged cut through towards the stadium, along surprisingly wide roads. It was lashing down as I dropped the boys off outside the away entrance at “Mr. Mac’s Stadium Chippy.” I backtracked to park up at our usual spot opposite the “The Grove” public house where we spent a miserable hour after last season’s away game.

I was parked up at 4.55pm.

Thankfully, I hopped on a passing bus to avoid getting absolutely drenched.

Phew.

The bus dropped me off outside the same chippy as twenty minutes before. The undulating curves of the Etihad were in the distance, but the splash of rain was everywhere. It was a miserable day alright.

Friday night, Westbury.

Saturday afternoon, Weatherfield.

Welcome to Rain Town.

I was inside the stadium at 5.10pm, just in time for the 5.30pm start.

I was alongside Parky – and Gal, and John – in effectively the front row of “Level Three” aka the Upper Tier. We were right next to the wall of the stand, beyond a void that housed only security staff, a few Old Bill and, oddly, a load of sky blue seats stacked up in neat rows. PD and Glenn were just a few rows behind us, again right next to the wall. This was Glenn’s first visit to City since a game in September 2008, a nice 3-1 win.

Our record since then, as we all know, has not been great. A narrow 1-0 win in 2013/14, a mesmeric 3-1 win in 2016/17 stand out. The 2-1 in the COVID season of 2020/21 not so; nobody was there.

Unfortunately, there were a few gaps in our three tiers. Train cancellations had left many stranded in London.

At the other end of the stadium, a lone crane stood guard over the stadium. City are now commencing work on increasing the stadium’s capacity to over 60,000. As I understand it, there will be a simple extension of the existing middle tier into a large tier rather than the creation of a third tier that would mirror that of the southern end.

Regardless, it’s a fantastic view from the front rows of the upper tier.

The team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

“Looks like Jackson upfront, then.”

The Sky Blues of Manchester vs. Chelsea in Tottenham navy.

Modern football, eh?

The rain was still coming down in sheets as the game began.

We attacked the crane.

It took three minutes into the game for me to spot the first “Three Little Birds.”

After seven minutes, we constructed a fine move and Conor Gallagher worked a low cross from the right but there was nobody on hand to apply a touch.

On eleven minutes, Erling Haaland inexplicably missed a great chance to give the home team a lead but his header from a perfect cross down below us flew over the bar. We heaved a massive sigh of relief. It would not be for the last time.

A minute after, Raheem Sterling cut in but shot weakly at Ederson. We heaved a massive sigh of frustration. It would not be for the last time.

But this was a really positive start for us. The team looked energised and aggressive. I was strangely – and worryingly – overcome with a little optimism.

Gallagher – roaming at times in surprisingly high positions – was putting in a talismanic performance already. This was a fine start.

At the half-way mark of the first period, Cole Palmer played a fine ball to Malo Gusto on the right, just beating the offside line. He advanced and played in the advancing Nicolas Jackson. A quick finish was needed but his clumsy touch allowed Ederson to smother.

Just after, Raheem Sterling found himself in acres of space – “find me, find me and nothing more” – but we just couldn’t get the ball out to him. He was just inside his own half with no City player closer than twenty yards. A golden opportunity was lost.

On thirty-two minutes, another bloody chance. Another Sterling / Ederson moment, but an offside anyway.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Moises Caicedo was committing one-too-many silly tackles and was booked.

On forty-two minutes, we again caught City on the hop. We neatly built a move from deep inside our half down below us in the corner. Jackson adeptly sidestepped two City aggressors and passed to Palmer. His one touch prod into space to Jackson was perfect. Another first-time-touch was laid across the box to Sterling, though deeper than the Jackson chance.

Raheem bamboozled Kyle Walker and cut inside before slamming a curler in to the far corner.

The net rippled.

GET IN.

The celebrations around me were ridiculous. Lads from behind rushed past me, knocking two gents flying. One of them – name unknown, I first met him in Stockholm in 1998, we had spoken already – was laid right at the bottom of the seats in front of the balcony wall. He was still. His head was perilously close to a concrete step. We were all so concerned. Thankfully, mercifully, he rose to his feet.

“You OK, mate?”

“Aye. Be a bit sore in the morning, like.”

I caught the cut inside by Sterling on film with my pub camera – SLR’s are banned at City – but you would not know it.

In added time, a strike close by Haaland was blocked by Axel Disasi and the ball flew over.

At half-time there was euphoria in the concourse and throughout the three away tiers.

Tiers of joy anyone?

I went up to talk to Glenn and PD. We were so happy with our strong performance thus far.

“A photo of some smiles at half-time, lads? No, might tempt fate.”

We reassembled for the second-half.

On forty-seven minutes, a Kevin De Bruyne free-kick in Kevin De Bryne territory, but thankfully his effort looped and dropped onto the roof of the net rather than inside it.

Phew.

On fifty minutes, City now dominating, there was a rapid counter from the home team. I really feared this. Phil Foden played in Haaland and I watched with trepidation as he met the cross on the volley. I was right in line with the effort. I laughed as he shot wildly wide.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

Two half-chances for us. Jackson to Gallagher but wide. Then a Palmer to Gusto move resulting in a Sterling slide that Ederson cleared, then saved well from a follow up by Ben Chilwell.

I was now clock-watching like it was a new hobby.

50 minutes.

55 minutes.

It reminded me of doing the same in Porto in 2021, watching the game pass in chunks of five minute segments.

60 minutes.

There was a block from a City effort on the six-yard line, I know not who by. We were throwing bodies at everything though. I lost count of the times that Disasi managed to reach and stretch and jump to head a ball clear. At right back, Gusto was magnificent, sticking like a limpet to Doku. His aggressiveness reminded me of Ashley Cole.

A strong shot by Haaland was saved well by Petrovic at full stretch.

The pressure was mounting but other City efforts went high and wide. Their finishing had been rank.

65 minutes.

Christopher Nknunku replaced Sterling.

As with last season, he was applauded well by the City support. There were no boos.

Nkunku wasted a chance but offside anyway.

70 minutes.

Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were initially boos here from the City lot and it surprised me. But these were then drowned out by a fair amount of applause. Fair play.

We were tiring all over the pitch; we had been doing a lot of chasing, a lot of ground was covered. It was a surprise to see young Trev out there but I understood Mauricio Pochettino’s rationale.

An extra body in defence.

But we inevitably dropped further back.

Hey, this was a fantastic game of football. Could Chelsea hold on for a magnificent double of Friday Night & Saturday Evening wins?

Another ball cleared off the line. Bloody hell. What defending. Epic stuff.

On seventy-seven minutes, a perfect De Bruyne cross from the right found Haaland who had timed his movement to perfection and had the whole goal to aim at. He was seven yards out. I fully expected to see the net bulge. This was it.

The header flew over.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

80 minutes.

A really loud “Blue Moon.”

Our singing had been decent, but it is so difficult over three levels.

Cesare Casadei for Jackson.

They kept pushing. This was manic, intense stuff. What a game of football.

On eighty-three minutes, a Walker shot from an angle was blocked but the ball rebounded out to Rodri. He took a blast and it rose high into the net.

The Etihad erupted.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”

Fackinell.

We were all as nervous as hell now, fearing the worst, fearing a second goal. I am sure we all felt that it would come.

Four minutes of injury time were signalled.

There was time for a couple of Chelsea half-chances and a late VAR decision on a potential handball. I was worried because the ball did appear to nestle against an arm, although I was of course over one hundred yards away. Thankfully, it was declined.

At about 7.30pm in deepest Manchester, the referee blew.

Phew.

We bounced out of The Etihad. It was the happiest that I had been in that small part of the world since late 2016. It had been a miserable trip for years. At last, some pleasure.

We walked back to the car, the rain almost stopped. Once in the car, we ran through the whole team, praising all of them. Gusto and Disasi had been exceptional. Colwill playing as a centre-back put in a really solid performance. Palmer had been as neat and influential as ever. Gallagher the heart and soul of the team.

“I just loved the defensive clearances and the blocks. It just showed that we were switched on and attentive, and full of aggression. It hasn’t always been the case.”

As I pulled out onto Ashton New Road, the rain increased and it did not let up the entire trip home.

While I drve home, we continued talking about the game.

“Haaland is a weird bugger isn’t he?” Nothing for a lot of the game, but he then shows up, a bundle of extended limbs in front of the goal.”

“So good to see Chilwell playing well.”

“With Gusto in form, we are absolutely in no rush to get Reece James back.”

“Disasi immense.”

“Love him to bits, but Silva’s days are numbered, no?”

I battled the rain and eventually reached home at 12.40am.

Thanks football. Thanks for two fantastic games.

Next up, Wembley and Liverpool in the League Cup Final.

See you in the pubs.

Westbury.

Manchester.

Parky, Glenn, PD.