Southampton vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2024.

Our last visit to nearby Southampton, and their dull identikit St. Mary’s Stadium, was on a balmy evening in August 2022, when it certainly seemed that Thomas Tuchel’s Chelsea adventure was unravelling fast.

It seems longer ago than just over two years to me.

Saints were relegated that season but bounced-back in their first campaign in the Championship. However, it was with a certain amount of annoyance that our away game was announced for a Wednesday evening; it just makes everything rather rushed and squeezed.

I worked 7am to 3pm and collected PD and Parky. My “sat nav” suggested that the drive down to Southampton would take an hour and a half, but I always suspected that it would be slightly longer as we would drive into some rush-hour traffic around Salisbury and then on the approach into the city.

I was able to pass on some good news to the two lads about Frome Town. On the previous night, in West London, the team had beaten Hanwell 2-0, only our second league win of the season. There was also some lovely news off the pitch too. During the day, Frome Town announced that my friend Courtney from Chicago – featured in the Anfield blog in October – was to join the board and to lead the way with future initiatives.

I was so happy.

I was parked up at the central station car park at 5.15pm. We headed past the dire “away” pub on the main strip – plastic glasses, noise, crowds, I am too old for all that shite now – and aimed for the “Biergarten” German-style bar that has housed us for a few years on our visits to Southampton. We got in at around 5.30pm. We spotted Jimmy the Greek – or rather he spotted us – and PD got some Krombacher in for him and Parky and something a lot-less Germanic and a lot less alcoholic for me. Jimmy had just eaten, and I was starving. I asked if the food took long to arrive. With an early 7.30pm kick-off, and the stadium a good twenty-five-minute walk away, I didn’t want to be waiting around for some food.

I ordered a bratwurst, some potato dumplings and some sauerkraut at 5.40pm. At 6.30pm I was still waiting for my food.

The first fackinell of the report.

The away end at St. Mary’s has switched one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, with us in the south-west corner now. This meant that the walk was slightly less than before but would still entail a hike for PD and Parky who both walk with sticks. So, with an hour to go before the kick-off, the others left to get a head start on the walk to the match.

My food arrived at 6.40pm. I shovelled it all down my neck in ten minutes and was soon on my way to St. Mary’s, the rain now steadily falling.

I have walked to the stadium from the south a few times, but it really is a messy and dull approach, full of shabby industrial units, and gloom.

At about 7.10pm, I arrived, the rain falling harder, and I could hear a loud “carefree” booming away in the distance.

A quick security check – they didn’t spot my SLR, it was well hidden – and I was in.

Bearing in mind that this area had housed the home fans since 2001, I was surprised how spartan the concourse was, all exposed brickwork, no decoration, all very dull.

I was inside, near the corner flag, at 7.15pm.

Perfect timing.

Yes, it was odd to be visiting a stadium but with a different view, from a different corner. The whole point of the change was for the club to be able to utilise the larger space behind the Northam Stand to allow for a – Godforsaken – “fan zone”, but it was allied to being able to set up an entire end of safe standing for the red and white hordes.

As the minutes ticked by, I was shocked how few people were inside that new home end.

What in God’s name were they doing behind there, in the fan zone?

Were they all grooving away at a “Howards’ Way Foam Party” or something?

Before we knew it, it was time for another annoying part of modern football; the pre-match light show. I guess it was OK the first time we saw it at Chelsea, and elsewhere, but it is all a bit naf, now.

To make things worse, out came a few mobile phone torches, how very Barry Manilow circa 1985.

The teams appeared.

Enzo Maresca had changed things around, and there were a few surprise faces in our line-up.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Disasi – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Nkunku

Or something like that.

We have become used to seeing Enzo Fernandez in a further-forward role of late, and I initially wanted to moan about Moises Caicedo being the lone defensive midfielder.

The home team contained many plain English names; Lumley, Walker-Peters, Stephens, Wood, Manning, Armstrong, Archer, Fraser.

They sounded like a “Dads Army” roll-call.

As the game kicked-off, the rain falling even more heavily, I trusted that Maresca had it all planned to perfection.

We were in all blue. This was forced on us because of the Saints’ white socks. There was something very odd about their black shorts. There was no trim at all, nothing. No coloured seam, no panels, no flash of red or white. Just a white number and a small badge. I approved. It made our shorts – still a dog’s dinner in my eyes – look even more ridiculous.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice, no doubt, as the game got going, but not so the home lot, who were really quiet. Given their current predicament, it is no surprise.

Despite their position at the bottom of the pile, the home team began brightly and Joe Aribo, the gum magnate, forced a decent save from Filip Jorgensen soon into the game.

On seven minutes, a Chelsea corner. It was difficult for me to see through the heads of the spectators but I spied a ball from Enzo that – SHOCK! HORROR! – cleared the first man. There was a leap from a Chelsea player and the ball was headed cleanly in.

YES!

There was confusion as to who scored. A few presumed that it was Tosin. Only when we spotted the team line-up on the TV screen a few minutes later did we realise that it was from the head of Axel Disasi.

Southampton 0 Chelsea 1.

Alas, just four minutes later, Southampton broke down their left and after a tight spin past Enzo, Kyle Walker-Peters prodded the ball back and Aribo arrived to volley the ball in.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 1.

Our defence must have been sucking on some of his Tangfastic gums and were distracted.

The home fans celebrated but “Gold” by Spandau Ballet was played over them, another aspect of the modern game that tires me out. Let fans enjoy themselves, in their own spontaneous way, for fuck’s sake.

The home team were surprising us. A lot of the play was in their final third down in front of us.

On seventeen minutes, the Saints; ‘keeper Joe Lumley attempted one of those kamikaze-style passes as beloved by connoisseurs of the modern game, but Noni Madueke was alert and intercepted the ball before advancing and slipping the ball out to Christopher Nkunku. He slotted the ball into a very empty net.

Fackinell.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 2.

“It’ll be 6-5 at this rate, Al.”

As the first half continued, we improved and became looser, more confident. I loved the way that Joao Felix found space, and he was often involved.

We had a spell with some good chances from Madueke and Joao Felix. Then a run from Palmer, after a great pass from Joao Felix, but his shot hit the base of the near post after a save from Lumley. Just after, a header from Tosin from a corner by Palmer grazed the bar.

This was an open game, but with a few errors all over the pitch. It had the feel of an old-fashioned match, despite periods of play when we slowed things right down. Palmer sometimes walked at a snail’s pace with the ball.

On thirty-five minutes, Joao Felix pushed the ball out to Madueke who advanced in the inside-right channel. This is where Noni often makes an incorrect decision, but after a shimmy or two to wrong-foot the defenders and get an angle, he guided the ball in at the far post, a shot that I just about captured on film, through the wind and the rain, across one hundred yards or more.

The Chelsea end roared.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 3.

The game seemed safe now.

The rain continued, as did the songs, many for players who have not featured for years.

Them : “That’s why we love Solomon Kalo.”

Me : “It’s fucking Salomon!”

Then, at a corner, some nonsense between the Saints captain Jack Stephens and Marc Cucarella. I saw the pull of the hair. There was a delay. Then VAR. Then the red card.

Oh boy.

In the closing moments of the half, a diving header from Joao Felix, but wide.

At the break, it was time for some “half-time hellos” for some folk that I had not had the time to see before the game began. It always amazes me, if I am honest, how so many of the same group of people appear everywhere, come rain and shine, and from distance too.

Scott from Lancashire.

Darren from Cheshire.

Mick from Yorkshire.

Rich from Leicestershire.

Heroes all.

What a pleasure to be so close to Madueke and Palmer appearing in front of us in the away section as the second half began. I thought to myself :

“If this goes well, we are in for a treat.”

I did not have long to wait. After thirty seconds of the new half, Madueke passed to Palmer, who reached the goal-line, nonchalantly lost his marker with a seemingly effortless turn and sent over a perfect ball towards the unmarked Joao Felix at the far post. His header was guided towards goal, past Lumley, but it dropped past the far post.

Ugh.

Our chances continued. Tosin hit the post. Then, Joao Felix set up Palmer whose low shot was saved by Lumley. The ball came out to Madueke…everyone thought “goal”…but a last-ditch tackle robbed Madueke of the ball.

Unbelievably, the home team did not always seem that they were a man down and, without wishing to sound condescending, they played some surprisingly decent stuff. A save from Joegensen kept out Mateus Fernandes.

There was a feeling that over-elaboration in front of the Saints goal, especially from Madueke, was our downfall. He was very involved though, and always seemed to occupy the thoughts and minds of at least two Southampton defenders, allowing others to find space around him.

He forced two saves from Lumley.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced him.

Five minutes later, a raiding Enzo pushed the ball into the path of Nkunku. His shot was part-stopped by Lumley but as the ball continued to roll forwards, Palmer whacked the ball in.

GET IN.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 4.

At last a second-half goal.

I caught his celebratory run towards us, his smile wide, his trademark hug.

It was at this point that the trickle of home fans leaving became a mass exodus, to which the Chelsea choristers had an easy riposte.

“Oh when the saints go marching out.”

On seventy-nine minutes, more changes.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

On eighty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto raced at a retreating back line and set up Sancho to his right. Our loanee took one touch and smashed the ball high past the hapless Lumley. It was his first goal for his childhood team.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 5.

There were a flurry of songs.

“Oh, Enzo Maresca. Oh, Enzo Maresca.”

There was one based on “Amarillo” – a bit shite to be honest…”and he comes from Italy.”

…mm, must do better.

Then, the loudest of the night – “We’ve got our Chelsea back.”

A plume of sulphurous blue smoke billowed into the sky as the players came over to share the love of our support. A fine moment.

On the ridiculously long and wet walk back to the car…yes, new territory, or at least a new exit route, we got a little lost…we realised we hardly saw any home fans. They had departed earlier. In the wind and the rain, we bumped into a few Chelsea stragglers; Salisbury Steve, Mick from Huddersfield, Leigh from Basingstoke, Lucio, a few more.

I summed it up : “could have been ten.”

This one was a good one.

Loved it.

Next up, Tottenham away.

What else you gonna do on a Sunday afternoon?

“WE’VE GOT OUR CHELSEA BACK.”