Chelsea vs. Pafos : 21 January 2026.
January 2026 is a busy month for Chelsea Football Club, and a busy month for me. At the end of it I will have driven 1,400 miles in support of my team encompassing seven trips to London and one trip to Manchester. You can throw in around 20,000 words too.
However, when the alarm sounded at 4.30am, I was not overjoyed to be getting up so early to get stuck into an early shift at work which allowed to drive up to London for the Champions League game with Pafos.
A very long day was ahead of me, and there was a definite ambivalence to the thought of the match at the end of it. This first phase of the Champions League schedule seemed to go on for ever.
“Is it not finished yet? It’s the middle of bloody January!”
No, we still had two more games to play, despite starting off against Bayern in Bavaria in the middle of September some four months ago. UEFA’s pathetic desire for “more, more, more” meant that the old group phase of six matches has now grown to eight, with the threat of an extra couple of play-offs games thrown in too.
It felt to me, as I made my way over to Melksham at 5.30am, that this competition was never-ending.
And I disliked it – the format – so much. Eight random games, spread out over four months, what is there to like?
Originally, I thought about having my own little pathetic protest by not going to the extra fourth game that UEFA had foisted upon us, and the match with Pafos was very likely to be the game that I would decide to avoid. But then Chelsea threatened us season ticket holders with not getting our own seat if we did not buy all four home games, and so my one game boycott didn’t get off the ground.
Ironically, a bout of ill-health meant that I still missed a game – Barcelona – but was too ill to even think about getting my money back by selling that ticket back to the club. It was all a bit of mess.
So, Pafos, then, and a visit by David Luiz’ new club. I last saw him playing for Flamengo in the Maracana eighteen months ago. As the day developed, I was unaware that he had received a knock at the weekend.
Unfortunately, the tousle-haired defender was not the only person who was unable to take part in the evening’s entertainment. PD was suffering with flu and so I was accompanied by just Parky on the trip to London. Heavy traffic over the last few miles meant that I wasn’t parked until 5.30pm, some three-and-a-half hours after leaving work. There had been plans to head down to the pub, but it was a rainy old night in deepest Fulham and so I sought refuge in my usual midweek restaurant; calamari and moussaka this week. I then dropped into another favourite café for a coffee. This killed a nice amount of time and helped me avoid getting too wet.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at 7.15pm.
Through the day I had contemplated some word play involving our opponents from Cyprus.
Pafos.
From the city of Paphos.
I kept thinking of pathos; “a quality that evokes pity or sadness.”
I wondered who would be sad at the end of the night.
Us or them?
To give ourselves the best chance of reaching the top eight in the “league of thirty-two teams” we needed to win, desperately, against Pafos, especially since our last game was a very tricky away trip to Napoli. This huge listing of thirty-two teams has hardly caught my attention at all, and I suspect that it will only really be studied when there is just one game left. What a tedious process.
Soon after I reached my seat, I spotted the Pafos players warming up at The Shed. I heard David Luiz’ name mentioned by the stadium announcer, and I saw it featured on the TV screen. I therefore presumed that he was playing. I searched hard for his familiar features on the pitch but could not locate him anywhere. There was a bloke with long hair who looked like Matthew McConaughey, but not David Luiz. I was momentarily stumped.
I did briefly wonder if, unbeknown to any of us, a few Hollywood types had watched on from afar at the Wrexham phenomenon and had wanted a piece of the action too. Literally. Perhaps they had secretly taken over this little-known Cypriot club – only formed in 2014 – and had changed their names so they could experience Champions League football for themselves.
That was it, then.
Ivan Sunjic was really Matthew McConaughey.
Jay Gorter was Ben Stiller.
Bruno Langa was Will Smith.
Pepe was Seth Rogen.
Georgios Michael? Surely not.
As for us, the Chelsea all-stars lined up as follows :
Jorgensen
Gusto – Fofana – Badiashile – Hato
James – Caicedo
Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho
Delap
It feels like whoever is the Chelsea manager these days just spins a wheel to decide centre-back pairings.
There seemed to be many tickets going spare on various social media sites during the build-up to this game, and Sir Les reckoned that only around 32,000 would be inside for this one, despite whatever gate is officially announced. Without PD, Clive and Alan alongside me, it felt odd to be by myself at Stamford Bridge for this game. I could see empties all over the stadium and guessed that the place was maybe two or three thousand shy of a sell-out.
Flames, fireworks, the Champions League anthem.
At 8pm, kick-off, and Chelsea attacked the Matthew Harding Stand.
Hey, it was a terrible game, right?
It really did not have much going for it at all. I noted, as I tend to do at most games these days, some important bits and pieces on my ‘phone as the first half began, but looking at them now, they only illustrate the paucity of entertaining stuff on show.
The tone of the evening was set in the first few minutes when a Reece James free kick down below us did not get past the first man, and then a pass out from the ‘keeper Filip Jorgensen went out for a throw-in to Pafos. There then followed a couple more mistakes. Less than ten minutes had gone, and it was already setting up to be a shocker.
It seemed that the only bright spot of the entire evening was the Pafos ‘keeper Jay Gorter’s all red kit.
On ten minutes, Pedro Neto cut in from the right, and shot over, as he invariably does these days.
Looking at Liam Delap leading the line, then coming short to play the ball back to supporting team members, I wondered if we actually see him play the ball with aplomb to the likes of Enzo and James, or do we just witness a heavy touch that sometimes results in the ball ending up at the feet of a team mate. Answers on a postcard.
A lovely twist and turn from Enzo set up a shot from James from outside the box, but it whizzed past the right-hand post. I thought it was in.
On around twenty minutes, a cross from Neto, a leap from Enzo and a goal. But the referee called it back for a push by our Argentinian.
I grew tired of Alejandro Garnacho receiving the ball in a wide position, one-on-one with a defender, yet unwilling to take him on, and play the ball back to a central defender. I wondered if Pat Nevin, in his prime, ever had the ball at his feet and chose to play the ball back to Joe McLaughlin. Answers on another postcard.
On twenty-two minutes, Garnacho fell over down below us, and I wondered if Pat Nevin ever did that either.
It was tedious “pass, pass, pass, pass” stuff, and the bloke behind me said that it would be even worse in the second half when all this monotonous football would be taking place down the other end of the pitch towards The Shed.
I grimly replied, “oh well, best make the most of it.”
On the half-hour, a rare Pafos attack and the ball reached Jaja – or was it Lady Gaga? – on the left. His shot was deflected onto the near post, and we breathed a sigh of relief.
The two-thousand or so Pafos fans were some of the quietest visitors I have witnessed at The Bridge. Most remained seated the entire game.
Benoit Badiashile went wide with a header, and after some typical doggedness from Enzo, the ball fell to Moises Caicedo who forced a fine reaction save from Gorter.
Another shot from Caicedo was pushed away by Gorter, who was quickly becoming the man of the moment.
On a rare break into our half, the Pafos number seven Bruno – with the original Willian-style hair – broke away but Garnacho made a fantastic sliding tackle.
Throughout the entire half we watched as Reece James dropped corner after corner towards the near post. Most of them were dapped away with ease.
In injury time, the move of the match, and Caicedo set up Jorrel Hato but his strongly struck shot was well saved by Gorter.
The half-time stats on the TV screen showed Chelsea with 68% possession. It seemed a lot more. My man of the half was Enzo, equally strong in attack and defence.
At the break, Liam Rosenior made two substitutions. Bizarrely, Robert Sanchez replaced Jorgensen, while Estevao Willian replaced James. Enzo dropped back while Neto came into the middle and did his best to receive Delap’s knockdowns.
The second half began against a silent backdrop. The place really was so quiet.
I said to the stranger next to me that “I have seen more exciting games of draughts.”
However, just as those words exited my mouth, a pass from Delap to Enzo and a delightful chip towards Estevao brought a cracking first-time volley from the young Brazilian, but also another fine save by Gorter at his near post.
The game meandered on.
The rain fell.
Around the hour mark, the football improved slightly. Gorter fumbled a shot but recovered well. Then some neat play out on our left and a frankly unnerving back-heel from Benoit Badiashile set up Estevao who weaved inside but saw his firm shot blocked.
On sixty-five minutes, we recovered from a terrible Fofana back-pass and in the very next move we broke rapidly, and the ball was pushed towards Garnacho. He was one on one with the ‘keeper but his shot was blocked by the outstretched leg of Drew Barrymore.
Two more efforts on the Pafos goal.
Caicedo from distance; saved.
Garnacho again; over.
Fackinell.
On seventy minutes, a triple substitution.
Marc Cucurella for Hato.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
Joao Pedro for Delap.
With a quarter of an hour remaining, the crowd suddenly put their big boy pants on, and got behind the team
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
A few minutes later, Sir Les started to make his exit. Like us, he was headed back to Melksham.
“Can’t watch any more of this crap.”
Thirty seconds later, I found myself commentating as Neto took a corner.
“Another floater to the near post…oh, we’ve done it.”
Les had just missed the goal. I felt for him.
A Fofana knock-on at the near post, then a Caicedo jump to head home towards the far post, and the players celebrated down near Parkyville.
GET IN.
Chelsea 1 Pafos 0.
Bizarrely, this seemed to ignite the away team, and they played their best football of the game in the closing moments.
On eighty-nine minutes, Georgios Michael replaced Whoopi Goldberg, the last of their five subs, and that was that. I was annoyed that David Luiz never appeared from the bench. I final “thank you and goodbye” would have been lovely.
I met up with Parky and we drove back to the west of England. My fifth of eight consecutive games in London were in the bag, with just trips to Selhurst Park, Stamford Bridge – again – and The Emirates to go.
Oh, the gate?
The official Chelsea site claimed 39,200. Elsewhere it was given as 30,774.
The actual figure?
Answers on a postcard.
