Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night. 

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway. 

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc. 

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley. 

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.” 

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu 

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs. 

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup