Burnley vs. Chelsea : 22 November 2025.

With the latest, miserable, International Break behind us, we were now into a heavy period of club football.

I was up early on the Saturday for the first of these encounters. My alarm sounded at 4.45am, and at 6am on the dot I collected PD from his house in Frome. It was a milder morning that I had predicted after a couple of very cold days in Somerset, but there was drizzle in the air as I headed north. On the way to collecting Lord Parky in Holt, I called in at Melksham to pick up Jason, who is originally from that town but has been living in the delightful seaside resort of Swanage in Dorset for around twenty-five years. Jason’s normal lift is with a chap from Swindon, but he was not going to the wilds of Lancashire on this occasion. Jason was an honourable Chuckle Brother and sat alongside Parky in the rear seats.

The rain was steady but not too unforgiving. We stopped at Strensham Services for a McDonald’s breakfast at around 8am and the place was swarming with Plymouth Argyle supporters on their way to the delights of Burslem and Port Vale. There was a smattering of Liverpool fans dotted around too, on their way to – hopefully – oblivion.

The journey north was punctuated by the chatter of past Chelsea memories. I loved how Jason – who we have only really known for around five or six years – knew people in the Chelsea circle that we knew too. I really enjoyed hearing how Jason and PD were, apparently, in the same minibus that took a group of local Chelsea supporters to the Full Members Cup Final at Wembley in 1986. PD would have been twenty-three, Jason a mere lad of sixteen or so.

There was talk of Chelsea players from our distant past and our recent past. During the week, I had checked in on a blog of mine from 2022/23 – the away game at Forest – and I was absolutely gobsmacked to read of a player called Denis Zakaria, who started in that game. I was confused because I had absolutely no recollection of him. He played a few games for us and even scored the winner on his debut at home to Dinamo Zagreb, a game I witnessed too. I told this story to my three passengers, and I was somewhat relieved to hear that they had no recollection of him either.

And yet, later in the journey, I was able to answer Jason’s teaser about Nick Crittenden who made only two substitute appearances way back in 1997.

Funny game, football.

There was a quick stop at Knutsford Services and by now the rain had virtually stopped.

There was a brief mention of Scott Parker, the Burnley manager, and how he never really felt like a proper Chelsea player during his brief spell with us from 2004 to 2005.

My Sat Nav took me over the River Mersey and then east towards Manchester on the M62, before cutting off and heading north around the M60 orbital and up past Bury on the M66.

Eventually, we made it to the outskirts of Burnley, the town shrouded in fog, with the Pennines unable to be spotted in the distance. I have waxed lyrical on many occasions before about how a trip to Burnley often seems like travelling back in time. I glanced over at row upon row of terraced houses and was warmed by the fact that the town still seemed untouched, forever in the nineteenth century. I love towns with history. Burnley Football Club was formed in 1882 at a time when towns grew to become industrial centres and football clubs started springing up to represent their local populations.

It is a particularly favourite away game for me.

My mother stayed in Burnley with a friend of hers in the immediate post-war years after meeting in The Women’s Land Army; I always wonder if Mum stayed near Turf Moor.

I attended Ian Britton’s funeral here in 2016, at the local crematorium, with the wake at the football club after; we all loved Ian Britton.

It always resonates when I drive into the town.

All the car parking spaces were full in the two usual spots, so I took advantage of PD’s Blue Badge to park on some double yellow lines in the centre of the town near the War Memorial and the bus station. I was parked on the quintessentially Northern sounding Grimshaw Street.

It seemed wholly appropriate.

It was 11.30am.

The familiar walk to Turf Moor – not so cold, thank heavens – took us under the aqueduct on Yorkshire Street, and then on to Harry Potts Way.

While the other three veered off to gain access to the away end via a new entrance – the away fans are now located in the northern half of the Fishwick Stand – I wanted to take a few photos of the area around the stadium to add a little variation to my spread of photos from the day. There are four pubs on this stretch of the road – all home only – and the locals were popping in and out of them as I walked past the modernised frontage – painted a cool black – of the ancient single-tiered Bob Lord Stand.

I stopped near a pub called the Park View and spotted a long line of people queuing up along Higgin Street to purchase pies, chips and sandwiches from the front window of a house. I could not resist a photo of this match day scene.

With Goodison Park now gone, this might well be one of the last remaining venues in the top division – God, I hate how it has been shortened to “The Prem” over the last five years – where you get this classic juxtaposition of stadium, pubs, chippies, and terraced houses.

I retraced my steps, the clock-ticking, and turned right and right again and accessed the stadium grounds via a tarmacked walkway past the Cricket Club where away fans are ushered before games.

There was an almighty queue to get in, and time was running out. How could I leave my house at 5.50am and still be outside the ground at 12.15pm? Eventually I made it through the turnstiles, but the info on my ticket – Block 6 – bore no relevance to where I needed to aim for. There was a mass of people ahead of me and as I gingerly stepped up some surprisingly steep, but dangerously narrow, steps I saw the LED lights of the pre-game razzamatazz reflected on the stairwell walls.

Eventually, I was in, just as the teams broke from the pre-match line up.

It’s a good job that I work in logistics, eh?

I settled in alongside John in row H, and who should be right behind me but my dear friend Deano from Silverdale, who was lucky with a last-minute ticket.

Unfortunately, my very good friend Gary was unable to join us on this occasion.

His dear father had passed away recently, and so Gary was with his mother, as they both tried to come to terms with the sadness of loss. I met his Dad at a Chelsea game a few years back, and it is a nice memory. I texted Gary to let him know he was missed.

Rest In Peace Ron Phillips.

I took a few quick photos with my pub camera – SLRs are “camera non grata” at Turf Moor – just before the kick-off and steadied myself for my eighth game at Turf Moor.

We have a ridiculously good – no, exemplary – record at this stadium.

Since our last defeat here in 1983 – 0-3, a hideous result, I was convinced it would see us relegated to the old Third Division – we had played nine times, winning eight and drawing once. The draw was that 1-1 game in February 2017 when the weather was as dreadful as I can ever remember at a game in the UK. We had to endure horizontal rain, sleet, snow, bitter temperatures and a tear-inducing blustery wind. I have been colder at a couple of games – Stoke City vs. Chelsea and York City vs. Swindon Town – but this experience was unyielding in its nastiness. On the day, I think we forgave Antonio Conte’s players and were just happy that nothing important had snapped off our poor bodies.

The temperature on this day in 2025 was positively balmy by comparison.

Right, I needed to focus on our team. I tried to piece it all together.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Tosin – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

Burnley lined up with the ex-Chelsea midfielder Lesley Ugochukwu in the starting line-up, a Chuckle Brother that didn’t last long. On the bench was another ex-Blue; Armando Broja.

For a few moments, every spare inch of possible space within the stadium flashed LED lighting, urging support of the home team. The mundane grey interior of this old stadium metamorphosed into Times Square. It was quite an ordeal on the senses.

Phew,

Burnley in claret / white / blue.

Chelsea in white / green / white.

The game began.

It felt a little odd being in the left-hand part of the away stand, although I was central. I had to keep reminding myself that the old changing rooms were once tucked away in the bowels of this stand.

Burnley, attacking our end, began the livelier of the two teams and our former player Ugochukwu was a lively handful as he broke in from their right. On six minutes, Trevoh Chalobah covered some ground to block and effort on goal and he screamed his delight at its success. We all like to see that passion.

At the other end, Liam Delap screwed a shot high and wide.

In front of us, there followed two more resolute blocks of shots from Andrey Santos and Tosin Adaraabioyo.

On nineteen minutes, Sanchez was able to block a shot that was walloped straight at him.

The game continued, waiting to ignite after the home team’s bright opening had faded. On twenty-eight minutes, a frustrated “CAM ON CHELSEA” rang out from the away end.

Just after, a roller from Trevoh Chalobah didn’t test the Burnley ‘keeper.

It was all so slow and so mundane.

I muttered to the blokes behind me “fans from thirty years ago would be booing this.”

Then, on thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match. A break from the always effervescent Marc Cucuralla on the left who pushed the ball on to Jamie Gittens. From out wide, a deep cross towards the far post and a Chelsea player rose to head it back across the goal and into the net. We saw Pedro Neto reel away to celebrate.

GET IN.

The highlight of the rest of the half was the lovely reaction by Estevao Willian to our chanting of his name. His smile lit up the dull Lancashire afternoon.

At half-time, I turned to talk to Deano, and I was reminded that he is off to Sri Lanka with his wife in December. On their last visit, Deano encountered great discomfort caused by a dislodged retina in one eye. During that trip, he had to wear a patch on his eye. We spent a few moments debating whether he should cover the other eye on the next trip, to maximise his experience, and to make sure that if they had toured the island in a clockwise direction the last time, he would have to ensure he did the same in December, or he would just end up seeing the same things twice.

Overhead, the sun threatened to appear.

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced Reece James with Benoit Badiashile, with Chalobah moving to right-back.

It’s always a worry when Badiashile enters the fray. I always think it might take him forty-five minutes to warm up.

However, we enjoyed a good first ten minutes of the second period.

A wild shot from the frustrated, and frustrating, Joao Pedro went wide.

Gittens continued to annoy fans too, finding it difficult to link up.

“Still, it’s his first season. Give him time.”

On sixty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Delap, and Joao Pedro took a step forward.

On sixty-eight minutes, the Burnley striker Zian Flemming adeptly chested the ball down but volleyed over.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A rasper from Neto hit the base of the post after Martin Dubravka got the slightest of touches.

A shot from Gusto was scooped over by Dubravka.

It became slightly nervy.

Would one goal suffice?

Marc Guiui then replaced Joao Pedro.

Was this Maresca being too meddlesome? I suspected it.

Two abject pieces of Robert “Spin The Wheel” Sanchez had us all swearing in unison, but the danger thankfully passed.

However, I was surely not the only one who expected a late Burnley equaliser.

With the clock ticking, we had one more move left.

On eighty-eight minutes, we moved the ball through the length of the pitch and Neto advanced with speed to my left. He expertly played the ball into space for Guiu, who continued the movement towards the goal-line. He had the presence of mind to spot Enzo, in prime Frank Lampard space, who then smashed the ball in.

GET IN.

The game was won.

Phew.

The players loitered in front of us for a while and it was lovely to see so many smiles.

We met up outside and walked back towards the main road via the new walkway.

I had a little giggle to myself as I realised that I had been excited about pacing around a new part of Turf Moor. What, I wondered, would I be bloody like at Bramley Moore Dock in March?

On the way back to civilisation, the three of us stopped off for an all you-can-eat Chinese buffet at Stafford, an old favourite, and it completed a decent day out.

The record at Turf Moor since 1983 now stood as follows.

Played 10

Won 9

Drew 1

Lost 0

For 29

Against 7

I hope they stay up so we can visit Turf Moor again.