Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.