About Chris Axon

Chelsea supporter, diarist, photographer, traveller, but not necessarily in that order.

Tales From St. George’s Day

Posted on April 26, 2024 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 April 2024.

I was up early, around 4.45am, with yet another long day ahead. As I pottered about the house in a semi-conscious state, for some reason I kept thinking of that ridiculously chirpy – certainly for 5am on a week-day morning – Arsenal ditty that goes on about “playing football the Arsenal way.” I wasn’t sure why this was; some nervous reaction, maybe. But I soon adapted this to make it very specific to the particular date of the game.

“Playing football the Arsenal way. Thrashed by Chelsea on St. George’s Day.”

It scanned OK. I put it in my metaphorical back pocket to use on social media, hopefully later in the day. Then, with work started at 6am, the little ditty occasionally floated back into my mind. For some unfathomable reason, I shared it during the day in the office with Matt, the Arsenal supporter, and how he didn’t ridicule me is a miracle.

Oh God. What was I thinking off? Hardly any Chelsea fans had much hope of us winning at the Emirates Stadium later that evening.

Despite a slow but gradual upturn in our league form over the past eight games – four wins and four draws – this was always going to be the toughest of games, and the fixture loomed over us for weeks after the initial date of 16 March was set aside for an FA Cup game.

After the narrow defeat at Wembley on Saturday, the three of us were philosophical as we made a record-breaking exit from the national stadium, the quickest-ever escape from our seat at full-time to Marylebone and then to my car at Barons Court.

“I’m not losing any sleep about losing 1-0 to City today. We did OK. We should have won it.”

The Arsenal away game quickly followed on the Tuesday night. It was the first of seven remaining league games.

Arsenal – away.

Aston Villa – away.

Tottenham Hotspur – home.

West Ham United – home.

Nottingham Forest – away.

Brighton & Hove Albion – away.

Bournemouth – home.

Despite our upturn in form, and expectations, this was a tough run-in, and if I was honest, I didn’t fancy us to win more than a couple. West Ham at home, and then? I struggled to name a second game. Bournemouth at home? Maybe.

Only PD and I travelled up from Somerset for this game. We were parked at Barons Court again, bang on 5pm, and our pre-match pre-amble took in a coffee at a café outside the station, before hopping on to the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, where we dropped off for a drink at “The Queens Head” before returning to the tube network and alighting at Arsenal. The tube carriage was full of Arsenal on the last stretch. I saw a young kid with a Chelsea shirt peeking out from underneath a jacket and nodded.

The usual slow walk up the claustrophobic slope at Arsenal tube and then out into the early evening sun, blinking at the brightness. Here, I wanted to time travel.

I turned left, and I visited the past.

I walked along Gillespie Road, with its brown-bricked terraced houses, with neatly-painted doors and window frames, that have stood since before the days of Woolwich Arsenal’s abandonment of its south-side beginnings and its sudden arrival at Highbury in 1913. I like the fact that this little stretch of terra firma is still utilised on Arsenal match days. There are food huts and merchandise stalls, many utilising the concreted front gardens along Gillespie Road and it is a hive of activity. The place is a riot of colour, albeit the wrong colour. I was undoubtedly reminded of my first-ever visit to Highbury in August 1984, almost forty years ago. I trudged past the void that used to lead to the old North Bank, and then turned up the slight incline of Avenell Road. My camera went into overdrive as I photographed the splendour of the art deco façade of the imposing East Stand. It is such an impressive sight. Memories of 1984, and paying at the turnstile to get into the Clock End with around 16,000 other Chelsea supporters on that blisteringly hot day in the greatest of our collective summers.

In 1984, Chelsea were back. And how.

There were memories of sitting in the sauna-like conditions of the top tier of the Clock End for the Wimbledon game in 1997 too. Believe it or not, that was my only Chelsea win at Highbury. There were eight visits with Chelsea against Arsenal, but only four draws and four losses. I used to hate them singing to us about winning the league in black and white. Sadly, I did not get a ticket for the Champions League game in 2004.

1984 and 2004, forty years ago and twenty years ago, time travel indeed.

I walked past the Arsenal tube station once again.

I was back in the present, like a modern day Mr. Benn. We slid past the site of the entrance to the old West Stand on Highbury Hill – shoe-horned between houses – and then a left-turn and onto Drayton Park. More merchandise stalls, more red. A few boisterous shouts from supporters of both teams. The modern buildings of an Arsenal ticket office to my right, then the slow walk up to the wide open approach to the new stadium.

My mind had allowed me to wallow in the past, and it was now to check out the present.

To the left, brick terraced houses, 1930’s architecture, Alex James in baggy shorts and Herbert Chapman busts in the marble halls.

To the right, glass and steel, the new stadium, towering stands, nearby high-rise apartments, but also a nod to the past too, a statue of Herbert Chapman in quiet admiration of the new home.

Outside, I handed over tickets to Ray, and one of his mates took a photo of us.

PD, Chris and Ray with Herbert in the background.

There was a gaggle of worried Chelsea fans nearby; JD with Jayne and Liz, plus Neil Barnett.

“Have you seen the team?”

I had, and the concern was the defence.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

The focus was on the central-pairing of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Yes, I was worried. I quickly glimpsed at reactions to the team on social media. There was concern that Thiago Silva, who had performed admirably at Wembley on Saturday, had been dropped. I had a wry grin to myself as I remembered how the social media experts had decided a month or so ago that Silva should be dropped from the Chelsea team and told to gracefully retire.

Maybe the old guy was carrying a knock, maybe he wasn’t at a 100%. The dropping of Trevoh Chalobah was a little more mystifying.

But no Malo Gusto and no Cole Palmer. Gulp.

I made my way in past the security checks – I didn’t fancy risking the SLR again, my small Sony “pub camera” would have to suffice – and hoped for the best with the Disasi and Badiashile pairing. It’s probable that our first-choice at the back in a flat-four, should they ever be fit at the same time, would have been Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana this season. Fofana doesn’t even feel like a Chelsea player at the moment, such has been his enforced absence. Will we ever see him again?

I was inside at 7.30pm, a bitter wind suddenly providing surprising gusts of cold. My seat was right next to the wide exit adjacent to the corner flag. It provided me with an interrupted view of the Clock End goal, which I quickly decided may not be for the best.

Five of us in a row : Alan, John, Gary, PD, me.

I spotted some faces around and about.

The PA warned about consistent standing, and reminded us to be aware of who we might be standing next to and that some spectators are not able to stand.

“And I can’t stand Arsenal.”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, Joe Cole and Rio Ferdinand, on “Sky TV” duty, walked behind the goal from a previous position and headed right past me and into the guts of the Clock End using the exit tunnel. Joe Cole was serenaded by us all and he reciprocated by hugging a couple of Chelsea supporters. The Arsenal match mascot – Gunnersaurus – appeared fleetingly too, disappearing into the same void as the former players.

Long neck, small head, a gormless expression, big feet, clumsy, probably a very small brain.

But that’s enough about Rio Ferdinand.

A little music; “Hells Bells” by AC/DC and “London Calling” by The Clash.

Piped music, music for the fans, not songs by the fans, then flags on the pitch and flames alongside it. The modern football package. I bet Herbert Chapman would have hated it.

I noted that Kai Havertz, keeping his number 29 shirt, was starting for the home team.

All along, in the car, in the pub, all of the pre-match, I had mentioned that I wanted us to keep them out for twenty minutes.

They attacked us in the Clock End in the first-half. And they attacked us early. Firstly, Havertz went sprawling in the box after the most negligible of challenges from Badiashile. He was offside anyway.

However, in what seemed the next worthwhile attack, Declan Rice ran deep into our box. Alfie Gilchrist was exposed, and had two Arsenal players to occupy his mind. Rice passed it to his left to Leandro Trossard, who seemed within touching distance of us in the front few rows. I expected a cross. Maybe Djordje Petrovic did too. Trossard whipped the ball towards the goal and I, and no doubt Petrovic, grimaced when the net rippled.

Oh, for fuck sake.

Arsenal 1 Chelsea 0.

Just four minutes had elapsed.

The home team absolutely dominated the opening quarter of the game, and we were run ragged. Bukayo Saka impressed me. A fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. It was only a miraculous selection of last-minute blocks, lucky deflections, wayward Arsenal efforts, and great reaction saves from Petrovic that stopped Arsenal from going further ahead. There appeared to be hardly a seat not being used on this cold night in N5 and the home crowd, still believing that the title race was on, were baying for blood.

Then, almost inextricably, we began to improve. We won loose balls – “turnovers” in modern parlance, is this a fucking baking competition? – and hinted that we might be able to get behind Arsenal. Madueke, hardly flavour of the month at Chelsea these days, received lots of the ball but struggled to produce an end product. Half-way through the first-half, a scintillating run by the similarly chastised Nicolas Jackson up the left touchline had me gasping. I could hardly believe my eyes. His pace was spellbinding. I remembered a similar run at Villa in the FA Cup replay by Madueke on the other flank. In the end, his cross from the goal-line struck the post after deflecting off Gabriel.

The place was noisy. There were the usual Arsenal dirges, but Chelsea tried to quell their racket.

“We won 4-1 in Baku.”

Arsenal came again, a fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. Then, a deflected shot off a Chelsea defender happened to hit Petrovic who was well-placed.

I loved the way that Alfie Gilchrist took out an Arsenal player on the touchline. It brought back memories of how Doug Rougvie marked his debut by taking out Viv Anderson at Highbury in 1984.

We managed to put together a few attacks, with Enzo Fernandez occasionally playing the ball intelligently forward. Crosses came into the Arsenal box but oh for a target man. And how we missed the intelligence of Palmer, tucked in behind. When we reached the final third, we just seemed to run out of ideas.

We closed the first-half reasonably well. A shot on target from Marc Cucarella came out to Enzo who drilled a shot just wide.

At the break, I tried to be as up-beat as I could. I think I knew, deep down, that it could have been more than 0-1.

Elsewhere, down in deepest Devon, Frome Town’s promotion rivals Wimborne Town were at AFC Tavistock in a match that they had to win to guarantee the league title and automatic promotion. If that was achieved, Frome Town would be forced into the play-offs. It was 1-1 at half-time.

The match began again with Chelsea attacking us in the Clock End. The initial action was at the other end, though. Petrovic was called into action early, and saved well from a Havertz poke, but on fifty-two minutes, the ball stayed alive from an Arsenal corner and Ben White smashed a loose ball in.

Arsenal 2 Chelsea 0.

Worse was to follow. Five minutes later and a rapid Arsenal break. The impressive Martin Odergaard slotted a perfect ball for Havertz to run onto, with Cucarella and Badiashile chasing his shadow. The former Chelsea player smashed the ball high over Petrovic and into the goal.

Arsenal 3 Chelsea 0.

Lots of Chelsea left.

Madueke set up Jackson inside the box, but chose to go for the near post than the far. The side netting rippled and we spat out some vitriol.

On sixty-four minutes, Saka passed inside the box to Havertz, who took the briefest of touches before drilling the ball in off the post. I saw the number “29” on his shirt as he ran towards the North Bank and glowered.

Arsenal 4 Chelsea 0.

I had visions of a huge defeat. I wanted us to stop the bleeding.

Time for two substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk, as yet un-mentioned in this match report.

Trevoh Chalobah for Enzo.

On seventy minutes, a hideous moment. One touch football; Saka to Odergaard, a chip to White, and a ridiculous lob over Petrovic into the goal. It reminded me of that blooter that Tony Adams scored at the Highbury Clock End in 1998, the git. I hope that it won’t coincide with another Arsenal league title.

Arsenal 5 Chelsea 0.

Oh God, no more. Please.

Thinking : “we beat them 6-0 in 2014, ten years ago, please not six.”

This was horrible. The stadium was as noisy as I have ever heard it.

“We’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank Highbury.”

“We’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End Highbury.”

More substitutions.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

It was around this time, around 9.30pm, with more and more Chelsea vacating the away end, that I solidly stood against the wall to my left, not really paying too much attention to the game, and started to search for updates from Devon.

Tavistock were 2-1 up. Get in.

But then, bollocks, Wimborne had equalised with about six minutes to go.

The action on the pitch drifted on. Thank God Havertz had been substituted, but on came Jorginho. Stop twisting that knife, Arsenal.

I summoned up the courage to squint at the Wimborne Town Twitter feed, and there it was.

94 minutes : Tavistock 3 Wimborne Town 2.

My heart jumped. It soon became the final score.

What a mixture of emotions, though. I was hating the events at Arsenal in that horrible second-half. We just disappeared and wilted. Arsenal were well worth their win. I was just relieved that the home team didn’t go for the jugular.

The final nail in the coffin was Arsenal cheering every one of our passes in a late, late move that we put together.

Ugh.

With seven minutes of extra-time signalled, I asked PD if we should leave. We were the only ones left in our immediate area. From memory, I had only left early at a very small number of games in my Chelsea history. This was game 1,445.

The others?

Chelsea vs. Bolton, 1981 – to catch a coach at Earls Court at 5pm, we were 2-0 up.

Sunderland vs. Chelsea, 1999 – to beat the traffic, we were 1-4 down.

Manchester United vs. Chelsea, 2008 – to beat the traffic, we were 0-2 down, we lost 0-3.

West Ham vs. Chelsea, 2012 – I had had enough, post Di Matteo sacking, we were 1-2 down, we lost 1-3.

We trudged slowly up the steps. I must have looked pitiful.

I mouthed to a few good friends “I don’t like doing this.”

To be fair, PD has been suffering with his hip recently, and an elongated wait at Highbury & Islington tube would have been horrible. We walked down the Holloway Road as fast as we could. We reached there at 10.15pm. The Victoria Line to Green Park, then back onto the Piccadilly Line to Barons Court, getting back at just before 11pm. I would eventually get home at 1.30am.

I can’t deny it, the result in Devon had cheered me up no end. As I drove along the M4 and the A4, through those old towns, I could not help but to babble away to PD like a fool. To sum up, if Frome Town claim a win at home to Bristol Manor Farm on Saturday and Wimborne Town fail to win at Melksham Town, just sixteen miles away, Frome Town will be promoted.

Saturday 27 April promises to be a heavy day of football.

From Frome Town to Aston Villa.

I can’t bloody wait.

Tales From The Sweet FA

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”

It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.

Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.

The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.

However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.

Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.

This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.

Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.

Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.

Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.

It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.

However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.

Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.

We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.

Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”

“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”

Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.

“Beep.”

He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.

While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.

Beep.

“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”

Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.

“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”

I sang different lyrics.

“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”

Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.

As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.

City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.

Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

In the East End :

“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.

At 5.15pm, the game began.

We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.

Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.

Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.

Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :

“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

Good stuff.

At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.

Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.

Groans.

However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

Stirring stuff.

We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.

The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.

Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.

Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.

Glimpses. That word again.

A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.

But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.

Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.

Fackinell.

On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”

Music to my lug-holes.

A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.

Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.

I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.

On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.

Bollocks.

Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.

To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.

Bollocks.

Tales From A Cold Night

Posted on April 19, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 April 2024.

After the game at Bramall Lane on Sunday 7 April, I was again treated to a two-game football weekend. But this was no Saturday and Sunday double-header. No, nothing as easy as that. With modern football being modern football, this was one that featured matches on a Friday and a Monday.

The reward for working my first five-day week for a month – what a slog – was a Friday evening at Frome Town with a game against Bishops Cleeve, a team from near Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. After the dropped points at Exmouth Town the previous Saturday, this was a match that my local team just had to win. Thankfully, a Sam Meakes goal mid-way through the first half gave the home team a slender 1-0 win. However, it was a tough match, despite the visitors having a player sent off just before half-time. In the second half, the visitors enjoyed much of the possession, and everyone became more and more nervous with each passing minute. Thankfully, Frome’s defence were resolute and kept attacks at bay. The Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips, in fact, did not have too much to do. Frome, defending deeper than we thought necessary, took all three points, which kept the team at the top of the Southern League South. The attendance was a very pleasing 690, which took the home average up to 483 for the season. Frome have just three games left; if we win them all, we will be automatically promoted.

Saturday and Sunday came and went, but with some pretty hilarious football results along the way.

Newcastle United 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0.

Liverpool 0 Crystal Palace 1.

West Ham 0 Fulham 2.

Arsenal 0 Aston Villa 2.

I worked another early shift on the Monday. At 2pm, I set off from Melksham in Wiltshire with PD and LP. There was a little chat about the evening’s game with Everton, who last won a league game at Stamford Bridge almost thirty years ago. Did I expect us to win against the SW6-shy Toffees?

Yes. There I said it.

I dropped the lads off near “McGettigans” on Fulham Broadway at 4.30pm so they could enjoy a quiet drink with Salisbury Steve. My pre-match was spent at Stamford Bridge where I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. Overhead, there was a clear blue sky, but despite the Spring sun, it was bitter. In fact, it was so cold, thanks to a raw wind, that I had to disappear inside the megastore for twenty minutes to keep warm. It’s a place that I hardly ever visit these days. I am still trying to get over the sight of a bloke, probably in his early thirties, with a small Chelsea crest painted on his face. Outside under old The Shed wall, I bumped into a few friends before I finally made my way inside the ground at 7.30pm.

As I walked up the steps to the MHU and made my way to my seat, I was serenaded – appropriately enough – by “Blue Monday” by New Order.

Perfect.

I wondered if there might be a Chelsea-themed sequence of songs, but no. However, the next three songs were decent enough.

“Going Underground” by The Jam.

“Echo Beach” by Martha And The Muffins.

“Call Me” by Blondie.

Ah, four favourites. Four classics. The person choosing the set list certainly knew his target audience; it always seems that the match-goers around me in The Sleepy Hollow are children of the ’eighties, in thoughts, words and deeds.

Then, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits.

Ugh. Oh well, four out of five ain’t bad.

It was still light as the kick-off approached. The lightshow and the flickering flames did not have quite the same impact in the evening dusk.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Them?

A smattering of familiar names, a few young ones, and two old ones; Seamus Coleman, aged thirty-five, and Ashley Young, aged thirty-eight. Young always looks like he has his legs on incorrectly.

Just before kick-off, Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – from Riverside in California and last spotted at Sheffield United – appeared twenty-yards away in seats to my left. It would be their first match at Stamford Bridge; I had managed to get them tickets via a mate. They looked ridiculously excited. Alan and Clive sat alongside PD and little old me, the first time that all four of us had been present at Chelsea for a while.

The game began at 8pm. I wasn’t keen that we were attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

Everton, dressed in an all pink ensemble that reminded me of Daytona Beach in the late ‘eighties, began quite brightly. In front of the three thousand away fans, a cross came in from the Everton right – that man Coleman – but Beto thankfully stabbed his shot over the bar.

On thirteen minutes, a magnificent Chelsea move was played out in front of us. Cole Palmer received the ball forty yards out, nut-megged one of the young Evertonians – Jarrad Branthwaite – and adeptly back heeled a pass to Nicolas Jackson who quickly returned the ball to Palmer. I felt myself relax. Palmer’s body language reeked of self-belief and as he coolly and calmly slotted the ball towards the far post with a delicate flick of his left-foot wand, it seemed churlish for me to be worried about the outcome. The goal quickly came.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

It was almost too easy.

Alan : THTCAUN.

Chris : COMLD.

Just after, Noni Madueke, who had begun positively, drilled a ball in from the wing. From our position high above the corner flag it appeared that the forward movement of Palmer had hindered the path of the ball into the net. Palmer looked momentarily deflated.

On eighteen minutes, we attacked again. Moises Caicedo to Mykhailo Mudryk and a burst down below us, and a pass to Jackson. The young striker’s shot was parried by Jordan Pickford, who used to be a goalkeeper. The ball sat up nicely for Palmer to nod emphatically home from just inside the six-yard box.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan had noted that his two goals had been scored by his left peg and his head, and so was already thinking ahead about a perfect hat-trick.

It was an open game. Chances were shared. Mudryk raced back well to hack away a goal bound effort off the line at the Shed End. Jackson, not shy to come forward, fired a blooter just over the bar.

On twenty-nine minutes, a terrible pass out of defence by Pickford was pounced on by Palmer of all people. He instantaneously accessed the situation. His GPS was spot on, as he quickly lifted the ball high over Pickford’s gurning face, and the flight of the ball immediately impressed me.

…thinking : ”this looks in.”

Yep, the ball dropped into the empty net.

A roar from the Chelsea crowd.

Chelsea 3 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

I looked over towards the Two Tommies; oh boy, they were loving it.

Alan : “was that his right foot?”

Chris : “yep.”

Alan : “Perfect.”

Stamford Bridge had taken a while to make some worthwhile noise, but now the place was rocking to one or two “Carefrees.”

We thought that the visitors had pulled a goal back but I quickly spotted a raised flag for offside.

Phew.

To their credit, Everton kept attacking, but they looked awfully exposed when we got on the front foot. On forty-four minutes, Marc Cucarella – most definitely an improved player from last season – sent over a cross towards the near post. Jackson brought the ball down with a really exquisite move, and swivelled smoothly before slotting the ball home. This was another beautiful goal. What a performance.

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

At half-time, all was well in the world. I joked with the lads that I had not taken too many photographs of the game thus far, but 90% of them had been of goal celebrations. The actual breakdown was as follows :

Total photos : 58

Goal celebrations : 28

So, the actual percentage was 48% but never let the truth ruin a good line. In truth, we hadn’t exactly peppered the Everton goal with shots, but we found ourselves four goals to the good. In a season – or more – when we have bemoaned our lack of quality in front of goal, it was lovely to see our goals to shots ratio increase, if only for one game.

Baby steps and all that.

The second-half began and I was dreaming of a cricket score. I am sure that I was not alone. The new Chelsea midfield of Caicedo and Gallagher was performing well, allowing others to move forward to exploit the tiring Everton defence. We kept to the same script and were rewarded in the sixty-fourth minute when Madueke tumbled after a crude challenge by James Tarkowski. The referee quickly pointed to the spot.

The madness that then ensued caused unnecessary tensions in the stadium, both on the pitch and off it. While Palmer, who had fallen just before the foul on Madueke, gathered himself, there seemed to be a feisty altercation on the penalty spot between Madueke, Jackson, Silva and Gallagher. In everyone’s mind, Palmer was the obvious – and only – choice for the penalty. Madueke and Jackson seemed to have other opinions. Silva and Gallagher wrested the ball away from Madueke, who flounced off in a pathetic strop.

Palmer placed the ball on the spot.

Palmer scored.

Chelsea 5 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan asked me to name the last occasion that we were 5-0 up at home in the league. I could only think of that magnificent game – better than this one – in November 2016 when we beat Everton 5-0.

(The correct answer was Norwich City in 2021 when we went in to win 7-0.)

Mauricio Pochettino made some changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Madueke.

Madueke had played well, but had blotted his copybook with his stupid tantrum on the penalty spot. I expected a few boos, but there were hardly any.

The Everton fans, wh had sreadfastly resisted the desire to return to Merseyside began to leave en masse.

More changes came.

Cesare Casadie for Palmer.

What a player this young lad is. Twenty goals for our number twenty this season, level with a certain Manchester City totem. The applause for Palmer was loud and sustained.

Ben Chilwell for Mudryk.

Not Mudryk’s best game, not his worst, he was applauded too.

Thiago Silva was serenaded on many occasions during the game, especially with him defending down below us in the second-half. I am sure that everyone wants to let him know how much he is loved in these last few weeks of his Chelsea career.

Two more late changes.

Alfie Gilchrist for Gusto.

Another decent outing for young Gusto, who was warmly applauded.

Deivid Washington for Jackson.

Jackson is getting there, there are improvements taking place, and he was applauded too.

In the ninetieth minute, a cross from the left by Chilwell eventually fell to Alfie Gilchrist. The youngster took aim and fired a strong shot past the hapless Pickford and a huge roar enveloped the stadium. It was, of course, his first goal in the first team. The scorer raced towards the corner flag and seemed to be accelerating as he ran on. I thought he was going to keep on running onto the West Stand forecourt and down the Fulham Road before eventually stopping at “Chubby’s Grill” or whatever it is called these days for a hot dog and onions.

Fackinell.

The joy in Alfie’s celebrations warmed us all up on a very fine night at a cold – Cole Palmer cold – Stamford Bridge.

Whisper it, but our team is slowly coming together. Those glimpses of quality are becoming more frequent. In our last two home games in the league we have scored ten goals. We have a difficult run of games to finish this season, but let’s see how high we can get.

Next up we meet Manchester City in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley, bloody Wembley.

See you there.

Tales From 544 Miles And 40 Years Of Friendship

Posted on April 13, 2024 by Chris Axon

Sheffield United vs. Chelsea : 7 April 2024.

On this weekend of football, there would be the need for extensive travel plans to enable me to make back-to back trips to East Devon and South Yorkshire.

On the Saturday, I drove the seventy miles down to a Devon seaside town where Exmouth Town were up against Frome Town. This particular trip brought back some horrible memories from last season when the home team inflicted a 5-0 defeat on Frome. Frome went into this game in prime position in the league table, hoping for an away win, but also hoping that our rivals Wimborne Town might drop points at home to Paulton Rovers. In blustery conditions, playing on a soft pitch, the game was always going to be a tough one. It did not help when our star player Jon Davies went off early with a nasty injury. However, we soon heard that Wimborne were losing 1-0, and so a cheer went up from the decent away following. The game developed into a scrappy affair in very difficult conditions, and despite some late pressure on the Exmouth rear-guard, a goal was not forthcoming. The match ended goal-less. We were to learn that Wimborne had recovered well to win their game 2-1. Frome Town, however, grimly clung on to top spot, despite being level on points and with the same goal difference as Wimborne. We remained top because we had scored one solitary goal more.

Talk about tight margins…

I was up early, at around 7am, on the Sunday. Again, PD was my only travelling companion for this Chelsea trip, a visit to Bramall Lane for our game against Sheffield United. I picked him up in Frome at 8am. This would be PD’s first-ever visit to Bramall Lane; it would only be my second.

Over the years that I have been watching Chelsea play, our paths haven’t crossed too often.

My only previous visit to Bramall Lane had taken place on Saturday 28 October 2006.

From the date of my first Chelsea game in 1974 to this game thirty-two years later, we had only visited Sheffield United six times.

I travelled-up to the game in 2006 alone but dropped in to see a friend – and Sheffield United supporter – Simon at his house a few miles to the south and west of his team’s home stadium. On that occasion, we went 2-0 up soon into the second-half – goals from Frank Lampard and Michael Ballack – but my abiding memory of the match is how Jose Mourinho didn’t “go for it” in the remainder of the game. It left me a little deflated. Here we were, a team in our pomp, but seemingly happy to be content with a 2-0 win against a team that would be relegated at the season’s end. I remember saying to my match day companions “Ferguson would be urging his United players to score five or six against this lot.”

Our team that day?

Hilario

Ferreira – Carvalho – Terry – Bridge

Ballack – Essien – Lampard

Robben – Drogba – Cole

Petr Cech had been badly injured at the away game at Reading just a fortnight earlier, and Hilario was his replacement. But elsewhere, what a team, eh? At the end of 2006/7 – and despite only losing three league games – we would finish six points behind Manchester United in second place.

We stopped off for a breakfast at Strensham Services at 9.30am. The place was awash with Manchester United supporters en route to Old Trafford for their match with Liverpool. A part of me wanted to ask each and every one of them what they thought of their team’s late capitulation at Stamford Bridge the previous Thursday.

PD mentioned a “Facebook Memory” from forty years ago. On Saturday 7 April 1984, Chelsea walloped Fulham in the old Second Division in front of 31,947. This game is not usually featured as an important game in a season of many important matches, but it remains important to me. This was the afternoon that I first met my Chelsea pal Alan, who has been sitting alongside me at Stamford Bridge in The Sleepy Hollow since 1997 and at away games since 2006. This was perfect timing, since Alan would be attending his first Chelsea away game at Bramall Lane since Luton Town in late December.

Forty years, eh?

From that chance meeting on The Benches in April 1984, we have shared so many amazing Chelsea moments, so much laughter, and our friendship is one that I absolutely treasure. From The Benches in 1984, to the Full Members Cup Final in 1986, to Wembley and then Fulham Broadway in 1997, to nights out in Blackpool, Scarborough and Brighton, to Stuttgart in 2004, to Bolton in 2005, to Depeche Mode at Wembley in 2006, to Moscow in 2008, to Munich in 2012 and Elizabeth Fraser at the Royal Festival Hall a month or so later, to Amsterdam in 2013, to Jerusalem and Bethlehem in 2015 and to New Order in Brixton in the same year, to Baku in 2017, and all points north, south, east and west in between, from “They’ll have to come at us now” to “Come on my little diamonds”, it has been a fucking pleasure.

We were back on the road at 10am and it didn’t seem too long before I had turned off the M1 at Chesterfield – the town’s crooked spire looking quite ridiculous – to approach Sheffield via the A61. I was aware that Sheffield was a city built on hills and I had mentioned to PD that I fully expected us to meet the brink of a hill and then to see the city displayed before us. I was not wrong. The sight of Sheffield down below us in the bright sunshine was splendid. There was a fleeting moment of being excited about visiting a relatively unknown city. I hope that I never stop experiencing those thrills, however mundane it might seem to others.

In the week or so leading up to the game, I had contacted Simon once again. I last saw him at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral in Rotherham in 2015, but we often chat about the performances of our two teams. A few years ago, Simon embarked on a massive cycle ride – from south to north – and cycled through my home village without either of us realising it. In this recent chat, Simon had recommended the “Golden Lion” on London Road as being “away-fan-friendly” but I didn’t fancy getting there too soon in case this wasn’t the case.

So, my plan had always been to stop off en route to Bramall Lane and to drop into a local pub away from the madding crowd for a while. We did so at “The Abbey” pub at Woodseats, just as the road continued its slow march towards the city centre.

It was midday. We were ridiculously early for the 5.30pm kick-off, but we very content and happy to kill a few hours in this pub before getting closer to the ground. I soon texted Simon to say that we were plotted up at “The Abbey” and – typical – he said that it had been his local when he had lived nearby a few years previously. PD sank some lagers, I sank some “Diet Cokes” and we kept an eye on the events at Ibrox.

At around 2.30pm, I drove the last couple of miles into the city.

Sheffield is not a city that I know too well. There were visits to Hillsborough in 1985, 1986 and in 1996 and that sole match at Bramall Lane in 2006.

In previous editions of these match reports, I have called Sheffield “the forgotten football city” and it still feels to me that this rings true, and probably not just to me. The city’s two clubs are big – if not massive – yet the city has experienced just three Premier League seasons since Sheffield Wednesday dropped out of the top flight in the year 2000; Sheffield United in 2020/21, 2021/22 and now in 2023/24.

Sheffield Wednesday’s last major honour was the League Cup in 1991, their only success since an FA Cup win in 1935 and Sheffield United’s last honour was the Football League Championship in 1925.

It feels like the city is in desperate need of a footballing renaissance.

The brief drive to my parking spot at a local school took me right past the “Golden Lion” pub. Just after 12.45pm, PD got drinks in. The boozer was full of Sheffield United fans, many wearing colours, and the walls were plastered with memorabilia. We zipped into the beer garden where two Chelsea supporters were waiting for my arrival. Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – aged just four – were over from Los Angeles for a couple of games. I had sorted tickets for them for the Everton game, but they had managed to find tickets by themselves for this game.

We had a good old chat and waited for others to arrive. Deano, Dave and Gary – from Lancashire – joined us, along with a few more semi-familiar Chelsea faces, and then Simon arrived. It was lovely to see him again.

So here we all were; Chelsea fans from the West Country, Chelsea fans from Lancashire, Chelsea fans from California and a Sheffield United fan from Sheffield. It was a fine pre-match.

I explained the lyrics to Tommie of the Sheffield United “hymn” that would undoubtedly be aired during the game. Teaching a guy from Los Angeles about gallons of Magnet, pinches of snuff and greasy chip butties was perhaps one of my most testing conversations of recent seasons.

We set off for the ground in good time. I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium, no doubt like I did with Simon in 2006, and I wanted to take a few photographs of course. We walked across the car park where Yorkshire once played cricket until the main stand, now the Tony Currie Stand, was constructed in 1975. Until then, Bramall Lane was an oddly-lopsided ground, similar to the one at Northampton Town, hosting both cricket and football.

Simon told me that he had recently completed some research for a local website detailing the football heritage of Sheffield. Sheffield FC, located a few miles to the south, are the oldest football club in the entire world that is still in existence. They date from 1857. Nearby Hallam FC is third on that list, formed three years later.

Sheffield has so much football history, though very little recent silverware.

I loved the colours and the architecture at Bramall Lane, the old turnstiles, the angles, the red bricks, the signs and the way it feels like a part of the community. Simon lamented the facilities in The Kop though, where at half time you have to make a decision whether to use the toilets or get some refreshments. The queues are too long to do both.

As we turned a corner we wished each other well and said our goodbyes.

There is always a certain nervousness as I approach the stewards at the away turnstiles, but after I opened up my camera bag, the young lad made a comment that pleased me.

“Ah, a camera. Take some good photos.”

If only this attitude existed elsewhere.

The away concourse was packed, and the youngsters in our support seemed to be on the very cusp of throwing their beer everywhere. I nervously edged my way through, shielding the camera as I went. The 5.30pm kick off – ridiculous, thank you Footballing Gods – had obviously enabled many in our support to get tanked up from late morning.

I soon found our seats near the front. I soon asked a friend to take a photo of Alan and little old me to celebrate our Chelsea anniversary.

Lots of faces nearby. Lots of bevvied-up faces too. Fackinell.

It was obvious from the off that the gate would be several thousand shy of the capacity, a shame. There were swathes of empty seats in The Kop at the other end of the stadium. Bramall Lane is a neat enough stadium, but its single tiered stands on three sides do not give it much of a presence. I wondered if there were plans to enlarge the Tony Currie Stand. The pitch is set back from the pitch and there is certainly room in the car park behind. Our end was the only double-decked stand, but our support was stretched out in the entirety of the lower, and I suspected that it would be difficult to generate much noise.

The team? Thiago Silva returned, but alas there was no Malo Gusto.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Palmer

Jackson

The five of us were lined up in Row G as below :

Gal, John, me, Al, PD.

Sheffield United featured the wonderfully-named Bogle and Trusty, and also Brereton, the Chilean international from Stoke.

Bloody hellfire, duck.

The teams entered the pitch and the locals joined in with their hymn.

“You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy chip butty.
Like Sheffield United
Come fill me again.”

With the sun shining above, the game began.

We attacked The Kop and began brightly enough. Noni Madueke made a few forceful runs out wide and at least one took him deep inside the Sheffield United box. I captured our first real shot in anger, one from the raiding Cole Palmer that was blocked.

A new song, but quite irritating too.

“Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, Palmer again. Palmer again, ole, ole.”

6/10.

After just eleven minutes, Conor Gallagher dropped a high ball from a corner on our right into a dangerous area of the box and to our amazement, Silva was completely unmarked and able to calmly side-foot the ball in on the volley.

I forget who it was now, but one of my favourite sporting comments came from somebody who, when talking about cricket, wished that, as a batter, he was able to face his own bowling. On this occasion, such was the lack of resistance, it looked like Chelsea attacking a Chelsea defence.

Sheffield United 0 Chelsea1.

Easy.

Alan : “They’ll have to cum at us naa.”

Chris : “Cum on me little diamunds.”

The away choir rattled the home crowd.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

This seemed odd to me, as I still remember the titanic battles with Sheffield Wednesday back in the mid-‘eighties, and I wasn’t particularly happy that we were now siding with Wednesday. Old habits and all that.

We are a funny bunch, us football fans.

We all hoped to put a stranglehold on the game, but this is still a fragile team. Just like in 2006, we didn’t get at them. If anything, the home team came at us. The sun disappeared behind the clouds and we struggled to shine. Our passing was laboured and there was not enough bite in midfield nor movement in attack.

I was just about to praise the super-cool Silva for effortlessly dealing with an attack a few yards away when the same player inadvertently played a suicide ball to Oli McBurnie. The ball was passed to Senor Brereton but Moises Caicedo was suitably placed to deflect the effort away from Petrovic.

Phew.

The diminutive but busy Gustavo Hamer forced a fine save from Petrovic. The away support sighed with worry.

On the half-hour and with our chances drying up, the home team pounced. That man Hamer played in Bogle, running free, and from an angle he slashed the ball into the net, beating Petrovic easily at the near post.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 1.

Oh God.

The Blades in the main stand to our right sharpened their tongues and aimed some vitriol back at us.

“Just like Sheffield, your city is red.”

Righty-oh.

We countered with a few breaks, but it was all so unconvincing. The first-half petered out amidst moans in the away end.

At the break, the woman behind me – who had been slumped with her head in her hands for fifteen minutes, the victim of too many pre-match drinks – summed up the mood in the away end.

She was sick.

Luckily, Gary, John and I – who would have been in the line of fire – were away from the torrent as it cascaded down the terrace steps.

The second-half began and the temperature had noticeably dropped as the evening drew on. Sadly, it was the home team who went for the jugular. I wasn’t sure where Simon was watching the game, but he must have been happy with his team’s showing. They peppered our goal with a few efforts.

We retaliated with a couple of efforts; a header from Silva at a corner, a drive from Madueke.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

On sixty-six minutes, the relatively quiet Palmer played the ball wide to Madueke and as he drove on and then twisted inside, I prepared my camera for a hopeful money shot. He shot, as did I. The ball fizzed past Ivo Grbic and I snapped away, screaming no doubt, as Madueke ran towards us.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 2.

Grbic then saved a good effort from distance from Palmer. A goal then, surely, would have killed the game.

Palmer was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Later, Madueke was replaced by Mykhailo Mudryk.

On eighty-six minutes, a superb save at full stretch from Petrovic kept a looping header out. It was one of the saves of the season, a magnificent stop.

I had been watching Benoit Badiashile and Cesare Casadei warming up near us on the touchline, but I was shocked to see them brought on so late in the game; Badiashile replaced Cucarella, Casadei replaced Jackson. I guess the idea was to pack our defensive lines full of taller players, but it smacked of desperation from my viewpoint in the away end.

Lo and behold, on ninety-three minutes, a Sheffield United attack did not want to die and a ball was chipped into our box. It was headed away by Enzo but only to a Sheffield United player. His header was flicked on. My sixth-sense easily sensed the equaliser. The ball fell, too easily, at the feet of McBurnie who bundled the ball in from close in.

Sheffield United 2 Chelsea 2.

Bollocks.

The anger in the away end was palpable, yet I am afraid I have seen this all too often to get too down about dropped points.

The referee soon signalled the end of the game.

Not much of a game, not much of a match report.

We stayed in ninth place, just away from everything of note.

PD and I slowly trudged back to the car, and for a while the match-day traffic slowed my immediate progress south. As we crept out of Sheffield, we devoured some home-made sandwiches, and I badly needed that sustenance. The traffic soon cleared, and I made good time on the return leg. I had driven five-hundred and forty-four miles to the games in Exmouth and Sheffield and I soon fell asleep once I reached home at midnight.

We have a rest of eight days now. On Monday 15 April, we reconvene at Stamford Bridge for the visit of Everton. See you there.

Tales From 4.45am To 3.00am

Posted on April 8, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 4 April 2024.

Some finish, eh?

But don’t hop straight to that. Every story has a start, then a build-up, and a back-story or two.

Fasten your seat belts though; I don’t want you to fall off at the end of the ride.

On the way home in the car after the Burnley game that ended in a disappointing 2-2 draw, we engendered a pretty intense post mortem about where the club is, where the team is, our strengths and weaknesses, the whole nine yards. It was an exhaustive chat. The closing thought was along the lines of “well, hopefully we will all be healthy enough to keep going to games for a while yet” with a deeply pragmatic “we can only show up and support, the rest is fluff” as a final word on the day’s events. Although we had been dismayed with a draw against a weak, and weakened, team we have all been going to Chelsea for too many seasons to let a draw get us suicidal.

On the Easter Monday, I travelled to my place of work, Melksham, to watch a local derby. In a tough game, Frome Town raced to a 2-0 lead early in the first-half, and withstood a late Melksham Town charge to eventually squeak it 2-1. The crowd was a very decent 1,103 and the win put Frome Town top of our division.

The next Chelsea game, the 8.15pm kick-off against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge on the following Thursday, meant that I had to turn up at work for another 6am to 2pm shift. I was up at 4.45am and I dreaded to think what time I would be returning home. Before I left for work at 5.30am, I had a quick check on all of the previous Chelsea vs. Manchester United games that I had attended; across all venues, it currently stood at eighty-one This game would be number eighty-two.

There are four Manchester United followers in the office, though two were absent on this particular day. I set things up by saying that of the previous eighty-one games, few had excited me less. There was no banter in the office during the day. Oh well.

Only PD was travelling up with me for this game; the other two regulars were not able to attend unfortunately. Our friends from Jacksonville – Jennifer, Cindy, Brian, Tom – met us in “The Elephant And Barrel” on Lillee Road for some pre-match chat. I was reminded of the first time that Jennifer and Brian attended a game at Stamford Bridge; it was the game against West Ham United in April 2018, just a few days after Ray Wilkins sadly passed away. What an emotional game that was. And here we all were, six years later, on the exact anniversary of his passing. That Ray played for both Chelsea and Manchester United was fitting.

We called in at “The Cock Tavern” and I bored the Americans rigid with how I enjoyed my first-ever pint at this popular pub in April 1984, almost forty years ago. The boozer was packed when we arrived at about 7pm and I hoped that as we squeezed out to the beer garden the crowds would thin out. If anything, it got busier. We were packed in like sardines.

I said to Jennifer “this is when us English types stand around and look awkward.” But Brian had a different take.

“What could be more typically English than this? We are in London, in a pub, before going to the football. It’s raining and the Spice Girls are playing on the pub’s speakers.”

I smiled.

With rain threatening to get worse, we made our way along the Fulham Road.

I was inside Stamford Bridge just before 8pm.

We had heard the team.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

There were the usual three-thousand United fans staring us down in the opposite corner. They came with a few flags draped over the balcony wall, including one I remember from a few years ago.

“Levenshulme Reds : MUFC – No Mither.”

There were flags from up north – St. Helens – and down south – Patchway – and the away crowd were already in good voice. Before the game, the annoying PA chap shouted at us and obliterated any chance we had of building our own atmosphere.

Then came the dimming of the lights, the flames in front of the East Stand and a display of flags being waved in The Shed. Then, vertical “Keep The Blue Flag Flying High” banners draped down into the lower tier.

The fools who had paid £5,000 per seat took their places behind the Chelsea dugout.

The stadium lights brightened and the players strode onto the pitch.

The famous blue, the famous red.

The three visitors from Florida – not Tom, he is originally from Ireland, and not Chelsea, but Cindy’s partner, and watching his own team in a nearby pub – finally made their way into their seats front and centre of the Shed Lower. I easily spotted them.

Clive was alongside me, but sadly Alan was unable to make this one.

The game began.

And how.

After just four minutes of play, with us attacking both sets of fans in The Shed, Enzo played the ball out to Malo Gusto on the right with a fantastic pass. Gusto sent over a low cross, and the ball fell nicely for the onrushing Conor Gallagher. The captain quickly dispatched the ball towards goal in a way that was very reminiscent of Frank Lampard in his prime. To my eyes, the habitually mocked United ‘keeper Andre Onana appeared to dive over the ball. There was an air of disbelief, a slight delay, before everyone realised that the ball had rippled the United net.

Get in.

As the scorer raced down towards the corner flag in the South-West corner, I purred with happiness when I immediately thought back to the absolutely nonsensical abuse suffered by the player since the Burnley match.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

I shouted over to PD; “I remember Pedro’s early goal in 2016 against this lot” and wondered if there would be a ridiculous repeat.

Chances were exchanged as the game continued. United looked dangerous at times with Alejandro Garnacho looking particularly mischievous. Rasmus Hojlund looked as though he could cause us some trouble too. But we had decent spells of our own.

On nineteen minutes, Marc Cucarella played a one-two with Mykhailo Mudryk, and was upended in the box by Antony.

It looked a penalty from one-hundred yards away, cough, cough.

Cole Palmer took the ball and cleanly despatched the ball past Onana, and then celebrated with a trot right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some good ones there I hoped.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

There was a magnificent Zola-esque bamboozle out on the right by the half-way line by Palmer that made us squeal with delight. But at 2-0, I felt we didn’t really push on as much as we should. Our play was a little too slow, a familiar complaint this season, and in others too. But the once buoyant United hordes were quiet. We had them on the ropes. It was such a shame that we didn’t really go for it.

There was a Gallagher free-kick from out on the right and an Axel Disasi header but not much else.

Sadly, on thirty-four minutes, an errant square pass from Moises Caicedo to Benoit Badishile was cut out by the raiding Garnacho. He sped away and tucked the ball home.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 1.

Bollocks.

Caicedo looked devastated.

We looked second-best for a while and on thirty-eight minutes, Cucarella gave Garnacho too much space down below us and he had time to pass back to the unmarked Diogo Dalot. His cross cut out everyone, but was expertly headed home by Bruno Fernandes at the back post, the ball dropping in past Petrovic. I found myself muttering “good goal” to myself and immediately questioned my very existence.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 2.

Right at the end of the half, a screamer from Gallagher rattled against the near post, right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

At half-time, there were comments about how loose the game at been.

“Woeful defending for our two conceded goals.”

“It’ll be 4-4 at the final whistle.”

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to two excellent tackles / interceptions by Disasi, one seemingly while on his arse.

We struck at the United goal via Nicolas Jackson and Enzo.

In the Fernandez versus Fernandes battle, things were tight.

The game was opening up, and Chelsea peppered the United goal with efforts. Onana made several dramatic one-handed saves during the evening.

Sadly, halfway through the second-half, a lightening break down our right allowed Antony to advance and play a spectacularly good ball with the outside of his boot into the penalty area. We were stretched, and the ball bounced up and allowed Garnach to stoop nimbly just before Petrovic could clear. It was an odd goal, quite unique, and it gave the visitors the lead.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 3.

I imagined the four United fans at work preparing a few barbs for me.

The away fans bellowed “Who the fuck are man United and the reds going marching on, on, on?”

I grimaced.

This self-deprecating song always gets aired when they are on top.

Pochettino changed it around.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Caicedo.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Then Trevoh Chalobah for Disasi.

Onana continued to thwart us. What had happened to the woeful ‘keeper of the first few months of his United career? An angled shot from Palmer blazed over.

The final fifteen minutes was an increasingly odd period. We attempted to find gaps, and Enzo tried to create openings out of nothing. His prods into players helped keep the pressure on.

The United fans were in full voice.

“Red army! Red army!”

This was met with some Chelsea boos, but I soon realised that this was aimed at Mason Mount who was preparing to replace the impressive Garnacho on the far touchline. If I was honest, I was hoping that Mount would not play.

I didn’t boo. Why would I? Although the volume of boos was loud – and it surprised me – I looked around and behind me and I could not see anyone booing in our section. One suspects, if everyone had been booing, the noise would have been stratospheric.

Thanks for Porto, Mason. But you were shite last season, all of it, and that’s it, it’s over. He managed to get into a little spat straight away.

On the eighty-ninth minute, the last throw of the dice and Noni Madueke replaced Gallagher. I struggled to work out the formation, but we kept going.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Ten minutes of extra time were displayed.

We kept plugging away.

I turned to Clive.

“We’ll score.”

Injury time continued. Sterling and Madueke tried their best. The game was being played out in the United defensive third in front of us.

The time ticked by.

With three minutes to go, we seemed to have run out of steam, and both Clive and I agreed that it looked a lost cause.

Clive left, as had Albert, who sits right in front of me, a few minutes earlier.

Then, a late and forceful run by Madueke the substitute. He drove at the United box and we gulped in the night air. It was already way past 10pm. He ran and run, and was clipped by Dalot. We gulped some more.

…thinking : “looked like a penalty.”

The referee pointed at the spot.

Then, surprise surprise, the inevitable VAR interaction.

We waited. The United players stood around the referee. There was a commotion.

We waited some more.

I had walked a few steps to my left, down to the front of the MHU for a better view.

This was so tense.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

I took a few photos of Palmer as he waited to strike. Alas, the photo of the strike is too blurred to share here.

Palmer struck.

Low to Onana’s left.

Goal.

Bedlam.

Fucking bedlam.

I snapped as the scorer raced away, but the stand was trembling so much that all of the photos are magnificently blurred

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 3.

Fackinell.

I immediately thought of Clive, poor Clive.

I walked back up to my place alongside PD. I patted him on the back and we hugged.

“Bloody hell mate.”

After the re-start, United attacked – so much for killing the game, oh well, they are the great entertainers – and we won the ball back in our half. A flick from Enzo to Sterling, a touch to Madueke, who kept the ball well despite being hounded by three red shirts. He pushed the ball to Jackson who played in Sterling. There was a prod into the box. The low cross was cleared, but only to Cucarella. He passed to Chukwuemeka who shaped his body well. A curling shot, deflected, the ball just missing the frame of the goal. We grimaced.

But a corner.

I had taken ten photos of this move which had taken fifteen seconds to unfold. I was waiting for that one magical moment to capture for eternity.

Was there even time for a corner?

Our hearts were racing.

I flipped my camera up to The Shed to take a photo of the Jacksonville Three. Their cameras were posed too.

A short corner on the far side. Cole Palmer, unexpectedly free, received the ball from Enzo.

He took a touch.

I snapped.

He shot.

The ball deflected off Scott McTominay.

The net rippled once more.

Stamford Bridge erupted.

Chelsea 4 Manchester United 3.

My shot is blurred but I have to share it here.

I had just witnessed pure theatre, pure emotion. It was a moment that I will remember for years and years.

My head exploded.

Such joy.

Such ridiculous joy.

Such raucous joy.

For a few moments we all lost it.

“One Step Beyond” segued into “Freed from Desire” and then into a dancey version of “Three Little Birds.”

We all made arses of ourselves.

It was 10.20pm in SW6.

I quickly tried to think of a game at Stamford Bridge that had witnessed such a phenomenally quick – one minute and nineteen seconds I think – turnaround.

Not in my eight-hundred-and-sixty-six games anyway.

I certainly remembered the very late Wiliam Gallas screamer against Tottenham in 2006 that probably engineered similar feelings of joy, but there had never been anything like this.

Fackinell.

Game number eighty-two wasn’t so bad after all, eh?

We walked back to the car.

The night did not want to end. We had heard of the M4 being shut, so I diverted down to the M3. Then, that was shut, so we diverted onto the A322 to the M4 but then we were forced down onto the A4, the old Roman road.

I was philosophical.

“Not getting too downhearted about this late night, mate. Millions of Chelsea fans around the world would love to be in this car after what we have just witnessed.”

I reached Melksham just before 1.30am, and I eventually made it home at 1.50am. I would eventually fall asleep, after sharing the usual smattering of late night photos, at 3am.

4.45am to 3.00am, oh Chelsea we love you.

Tales From A Tough Time

Posted on March 31, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Burnley : 30 March 2024.

Our last game against Leicester City seemed such a long time ago. In the meantime, there had been an international break, involving games that I almost completely ignored, an entertaining Frome Town away game, but also some very sad news.

At that Leicester City FA Cup game, as the match began, I had found it hard to concentrate. I didn’t draw attention to it in my match report that would follow, but Ron Harris did not travel up with us in my car for this game. During the preceding day, the Saturday, Ron’s daughter Claire had contacted me to say that Ron’s wife Lee had suffered a couple of strokes. That weekend took on a strange feel; throughout it, my thoughts were not far from Ron and his family.

Sadly, we were to learn that Lee passed away in the early evening of Monday 18 March.

Despite the sadness of the loss, Ron was keen to get back into his routine of attending games at Stamford Bridge, so it was lovely to be able to collect him at 7am for the league game with Burnley. We made our way up to London and we tried our best to get back into our own match day routines. Unfortunately, Parky was unable to join us on this occasion. He had a swollen ankle and couldn’t get his shoes on. His place was taken by Glenn, although he did not have a ticket for the game. Instead, he volunteered himself to chaperone Ron around for the day, from various parts of the stadium, and to be on call if he was needed; a very fine gesture.

I made ridiculously good time. I dropped PD near “The Eight Bells”, then I deposited Ron and Glenn outside the main gates before parking up. All this completed by 9.15am.

I trotted down the North End Road, stopped for a breakfast, then had a little chat with Marco and Neil at the “CFCUK” stall. I then disappeared down the steps at Fulham Broadway to catch the District Line to Putney Bridge station. It was the day of the Boat Race, and the busiest that I had ever seen the station at that time on a Saturday morning. Thankfully, none of the fellow passengers were headed for the “Eight Bells” which was resolutely and solidly Chelsea on this first Spring-like day of the year.

Ollie from Normandy was with us again – always a pleasure to see him – and we were also joined by a friend who first met Parky and yours truly at a Chelsea vs. Birmingham City game in April 2011. Mike was living in Seattle in those days, but has been living in Regensburg in Germany for two years or so. It was super to see him again. Back in 2011, I was able to search out three tickets for him, his fiancée and a friend. On this occasion, he had to go solo and had to pay through his nose for a West View ticket.

I toasted my friendship with PD which would soon be forty years in length; I famously met him in a train on the way back from the infamous 3-3 draw at Ninian Park on 31 March 1984.

Towards the end of our three hours or so in the pub, we were joined by Dave – from Swindon – and his Chelsea-mad daughter Aimee – now living in Los Angeles – and we enjoyed a good natter. Dave has recently started reading the blog and wanted to say “hello” and I think PD got a kick out of this stranger knowing who he was.

“Where’s Parky?”

“Oh – he can’t make it. His hand is swollen and he can’t get it in his pocket for his wallet.”

We were later than usual leaving the pub. I didn’t get to my seat until 2.57pm.

Good job I work in logistics.

There was a quick check on our team; Mudryk and Badiashile were in.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Palmer – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

The game kicked-off at 3pm. However, there was another game kicking off at 3pm that would be on my mind too. My other footballing love, Frome Town, were at home to Bideford in a reverse of the fixture that I saw three weeks ago.

To be truthful, there was a part of me that wished that I could defeat the laws of physics and attend both of the day’s games at the same time. Last weekend, I drove up and over the beautiful Cotswolds to see Frome Town play at Evesham United. The visitors raced into a 2-0 lead in the first-half with two goals from Kane Simpson. It was an odd half, badly affected by gusts of wind and a bumpy pitch, and we were rather lucky to be 2-0 up. The second-half was a tight affair, but a better quality game with the wind less of an issue. Simpson scored his hat-trick and we held on to win 3-2. Sadly, the league leaders Wimborne scored a late winner in their game to remain top.

A possible season-defining visit to Wimborne sadly takes place on the same day that Chelsea are at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, so I am rather annoyed that I will be missing that key game. However, our final league game of the season takes place in Frome against Bristol Manor Farm a week later on Saturday 27 April. On the same day, Chelsea play at Villa Park at 8pm. On the drive to London, I warned PD that I might be attending both games. Watch this space.

Back to London SW6.

I remember a Burnley away game from a few years ago, and making the point that most of the Burnley players had traditional Anglo-Saxon names, the team seemingly unaffected by the influx of foreign football players. The game in question was from 2016/17, that freezing cold afternoon, when the town of Burnley made an even bigger and bolder attempt to be the most Northern football town of them all.

That team?

Heaton, Lowton, Keane, Mee, Ward, Boyd, Barton, Westwood, Brady, Barnes, Gray.

Was the 2023/24 model still containing traditional names, maybe traditionally Northern names, as before? Who was playing?

Bobby Crumpet? Alf Glossop? Eddie Vimto? Sid Clackett? Burt Blenkinsopp? Kevin Sludge?

No, Burnley has now officially entered the twenty-first century. Their team now contains such exotic names as Arijanet Muric, Lorenz Assignon, Vitinho, Jacob Bruun-Larsen, Wilson Odobert and Zeki Amdouni.

The club even threw us a curve-ball. On the bench was the much-travelled and exotically named Jay Rodriguez. But he was born in Burnley.

What the chuffing heck is going on?

Over in the far corner, around one thousand away supporters had travelled down from Lancashire to cheer on those Burnley players. However, their yellow shirts with a vertical stripe over the heart, combined with dark shorts and yellow socks, reminded way too much of Barcelona’s visit in 2008/9 and Iniesta, bloody Iniesta.

Gulp.

The game began and Burnley had the best of the opening few minutes. But we then came into the match enjoying a few efforts on goal. Our first real chance came from the boot of Enzo Fernandez, but his shot was incredibly well saved by Muric after taking a wicked deflection off a Burnley defender. There was then a fine save from Djordje Petrovic in front of the Matthew Harding.

Cole Palmer had four early shots on goal.

“Don’t mind that Al. At least he shoots. So many don’t.”

Nicolas Jackson was magnificently played in by Palmer but his dribble took him too close to the ‘keeper and the shot went awry.

Overhead there were few clouds, and the sun cast some strong shadows for what seemed the first time in months. The atmosphere was, of course, rather tepid. We couldn’t even rely on a noisy away following to generate some melodies that we would then steal for our own songs.

On twenty minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk sent in a cross that Axel Disasi prodded home. There was a delay, a predictable delay, for VAR to throw its murky shadow on the game. As Alan alongside me commented “if the mistake is clear and obvious, why is it taking so long to sort out?”

I felt my joy for football leave my soul with every passing second.

After a minute or so, VAR spoke. No penalty. Handball.

In Somerset, Frome were 1-0 up.

You beauty.

At Stamford Bridge, the game meandered on, with not a great deal of quality on show. On thirty-five minutes, a lightning move, stretched out wide on the right to Jackson, eventually gave Mudryk a chance but his shot was central and poor.

Meanwhile, Frome had gone 2-0 up and then 3-0 up.

Superb.

I whispered to Alan : “I dread getting to half-time because there are bound to be some boos.”

With a couple of minutes of the first-half remaining, Mudryk was upended by Assignon and the referee signalled a penalty. But VAR had to push its unwanted snout into the game again. Another delay.

Penalty.

It was Assignon’s second yellow so off he went. The Burnley manager Vincent Company was then given his marching orders in the resulting melee in the technical area. Palmer sent the ‘keeper to his right as he delivered a cheeky and crafty “Panenka” to give us a deserved lead.

Chelsea 1 Burnley 0.

Once the celebrations had finished, I checked my ‘phone.

Frome were 4-0 up.

Love it.

At the half-time whistle, I detected a few boos from the bowels of the Matthew Harding Lower.

I give up.

Going in to the game, without really broadcasting it too loudly, I certainly expected us to win against a team that had been haunted with relegation all season long. But although it hadn’t been a great watch, we were winning and could have scored more. With Burnley down to ten men, I hoped for more success in the second-half.

Oh boy. Our old problem of conceding early in the second-half resurfaced again. Just two minutes in, a ball from the right was knocked back into the path of Josh Cullen who took a swing – “fuck off!” – and the ball few into the net, Petrovic stranded. All our defenders appeared to be ball-watching. They were loitering like nervous teenagers at a youth club disco, unsure of how to interact with anyone.

It was a horrible goal to concede.

Chelsea 1 Burnley 1.

The team needed some backing from the home crowd but the response was virtually non-existent. With each passing minute, with Chelsea labouring to break through a packed defence, frustrations rose. However, our finishing was as collectively poor as I can ever remember. I don’t honestly think I can recollect as many shots that ended up being ballooned high over the crossbar. This affliction that had started in the first-half continued with increasing regularity throughout the second-half. It was horrible to watch.

On sixty-two minutes, after another high shot into the MHU, this time from Conor Gallagher. It was Gallagher’s worst game of the season. He was duly replaced by Noni Madueke.

We were now playing with three dribblers; Mudryk, Palmer, Madueke. I called them “wingers” for poetic effect.

Mudryk was trying his best to dance in and create but he was flummoxed by the lack of space. He was irritating PD and after a vigorous verbal attack on the Ukrainian, I leant forward and looked over at PD just as the five people sitting past him did exactly the same. At least he didn’t boo Mudryk.

But this was frustrating stuff.

On seventy-three minutes, the equally poor Moises Caicedo was replaced by Raheem Sterling. It was pleasing to hear applause for Sterling.

I looked over to PD and beyond.

“Four wingers!”

This mess of a game continued.

Shots wide, shots high, shots blocked.

The frustrations rose.

With a quarter of an hour to go, I made a mental note of the first “Carefree” of the entire game.

A minute or so later, Cath got going with a shrill “Zigger Zagger” down below and the crowd nearby responded.

“OI OI OI.”

On seventy-eight minutes, a fine move was enjoyed by us all. Palmer advanced and played the ball to Cucarella. He passed back to Enzo who had spotted Sterling on the edge of the box. A deft flick, not unlike the Palmer to Chukwuemeka flick against Leicester City, played in Palmer. He drilled the ball low across Muric into the net.

NOISE!

The scorer kindly ran towards The Sleepy Hollow where my camera was waiting.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Sterling came in for a lot of love from his team mates and quite rightly. His flick was pure poetry. Axel Disasi faced the Matthew Harding and stabbed a pointing finger at Raheem.

Chelsea 2 Burnley 1.

Sadly, just two minutes later, a corner from Parkyville, and a free-jump at the near post for Dara O’Shea and the ball had too much velocity for Petrovic to parry. The ball seemed to go right through him.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Burnley 2.

Alfie Gilchrist replaced Gusto late on. We had two last-ditch efforts. A shot from Noni Madueke rustled the near post netting, with half of the MHL celebrating. Then, a really intelligent run from Sterling to meet a beautiful dink from Palmer, but he got underneath the ball, and we groaned as it flew over the crossbar like so many other efforts.

Down in Frome, the game had finished with a fine 4-0 win in front of a very decent gate of 615.

Bizarrely, there was almost a late Iniesta moment via Jay Rodriguez, who had appeared as a second-half sub for Burnley. From a corner, his powerful header smashed against the post, but he could not convert the rebound.

There were the inevitable boos at the final whistle.

We sloped out, dispirited and disconsolate. The team is such a very long way from where it hopes to be. I still think, as I always have, that we will finish in tenth place this season.

Next up, Melksham Town vs. Frome Town on Monday and Chelsea vs. Manchester United on Thursday.

See you at one or the other.

In Memory Of Lee Harris.

23 September 1944 to 18 March 2024.

Tales From Badgers Hill And Stamford Bridge

Posted on March 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 17 March 2024.

This was another weekend where I was able to attend two games of football.

I spent the fiftieth anniversary – to the hour – of my ever first Chelsea game at Badgers Hill, the quaintly-named ground of Frome Town, for the league game with Yate Town. I met up with Francis and Tom in a local hostelry and we enjoyed a power-hour of conversation about not only the Robins but top-level football too. It was a real “State Of The Nation” chit-chat. With a promotion charge taking place for my local team, I admitted how annoyed I am when I discover that I can’t attend a Frome game as I am otherwise engaged with Chelsea.

In the ground, I met up with a few other pals; the ever-present Steve, plus Glenn from Chelsea, who was with Neil from Chelsea too. I liked the look of the crowd as soon as I walked in. Frome have averaged around 440 this season; this seemed a lot more. We watched from the Cow Shed along the side of the pitch as the home team dominated possession but were limited to a few chances in a frustrating first-half.

We decamped to the club end for the second-half and the visitors came into it a little. Manager Danny Greaves made some fine tweaks and it paid off as two good strikes from James Ollis and Kane Simpson gave Frome the points. The gate was a hefty 571. It was a solid performance; gritty, physical, but with quality where it counted. The only negative was hearing that leaders Wimborne Town had nicked a late 2-1 win at Malvern Town. However, if we win all of our remaining eight games – three at home, five away – we will be automatically promoted. The away game at Wimborne on Saturday 20 April could be pivotal. On that day, Chelsea are due to play at Brighton in the league or at Wembley in an FA Cup Semi-Final. Let’s see how that pans out.

I enjoyed the Saturday evening, basting a little in the glory of another fine Frome win, but my thoughts soon turned to the Sunday game; our FA Cup Quarter Final at home to Leicester City.

But my mind also wandered to those first fifty-years of match-going Chelsea support. It took my fancy during the week, thinking of the number fifty, to attempt to compile a list of my favourite fifty games from that period. That Saturday night I finished it all off. Of the 1,438 games I had seen, at first I narrowed it down to an initial list of sixty. Then came the final cull, swiping left on ten games. I include the list, the final fifty, at the end of this piece. It’s impossible to rate them in order of preference, so they are in chronological order instead.

Favourite games are not necessarily the greatest games, and not every single piece of silverware is listed, but these fifty games are the ones that leave a lingering feeling of warmth and appreciation.

The Sunday game was to kick-off early at 12.45pm. I was up at 5.45am, and left Frome at 7am. We were parked up in Hammersmith by 9.20am. After a breakfast at “The Full Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road, we met up with others at “The Old Oak” on the North End Road. The reason for this was two-fold. Firstly, we were hoping that Alan would be making a reappearance at this game after an enforced absence of over two months due to ill-health. If so, he would surely be in this boozer.

Secondly, the pub is to close very soon, and the property will make way for flats. I think it has a week left. This would only be my fourth visit over the years. It seemed right to make a final visit.

I dropped the lads off outside and spun back to park up. When I walked in a few minutes later, I was so pleased to see Alan sitting at a table opposite Gary. He slowly got up and we hugged. We have all missed him so much.

Oh, there was a third reason; the pub opened at 10am.

A few other folks arrived; firstly, Salisbury Steve, then Andy and Sophie, Neil and Nigel, all from Nuneaton. There was a brief chat with Huddersfield Mick.

As we left the pub at about midday, Andy was muttering disparaging things about the folk from Leicester, just up the road from him in the East Midlands.

“Let’s go and see the knicker makers.”

There were around six thousand visitors from Leicestershire in town for this cup tie. Sophie mentioned that as they spun around the Hammersmith roundabout, she had spotted that a few police vans were parked outside “The William Morris” pub, no doubt keeping a close watch on a section of the away fans as they neared Stamford Bridge.

There was a loud group of them exiting from the guts of the Fulham Broadway tube complex at about 12.15pm too. I noted a large police presence outside the West Stand on the Fulham Road. I soon made my way in. I stopped to take a “welcome home” photo of Alan with PD and Parky in The Sleepy Hollow and then made my way to my single seat, almost behind the goal in the MHU.

The team was announced.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Palmer – Sterling

Jackson

Before the game began, I had realised that I had left my glasses in the car. Added to the fact that Leicester City had chosen to wear an all-black away kit, it was a little difficult to tell the two sets of players apart. I struggled for the first few minutes before my eyes got to grips with it all.

There were a few early barbs from the away supporters aimed at the Chelsea sections.

“Football in a library.”

“Ben Chilwell – he sits on the bench.”

I felt like muttering “apart from when he wins European Cups” but I wasn’t in the mood.

The visitors began the brighter and an effort went ridiculously close to the right-hand upright of the goal right down below me.

“Ooooooooh.”

At The Shed End, there was a flicked-effort by Cole Palmer from a corner that was kept out by Jakub Stolarczyk at the Shed End.

On thirteen minutes, a really strong run by Nicholas Jackson on our right went deep into the Foxes’ penalty area. He had the beating of the last man, Jannik Vestergaard, and also the awareness to spot the unmarked Marc Cucarella at the far post. The low cross was perfect, the finish from the left-back was clinical.

Chelsea 1 Leicester City 0.

It was a perfect start.

We needed to be wary of the away team on the counter-attack and they threatened on a couple of occasions. The ever-alert Cucarella was able to head away a couple of over-hit crosses at the far post.

I spotted Jackson signal to Axel Disasi to play him through – great awareness, great movement – but I growled with displeasure as his request was ignored. The ball went square yet again…

On twenty-five minutes, just as Raheem Sterling was about to take aim at goal from a central position in the box, his legs were unceremoniously taken from under him by Abdul Fatawu. It was a clear penalty.

We waited for Palmer to take control of the situation, but to our surprise it was Sterling who placed the ball on the spot. My thoughts were along the lines of Sterling needing a goal, so the penalty was gifted to him.

It was a terrible penalty, the central shot kicked away with ease by Stolarcyck.

Bollocks.

Well, that did nothing for Sterling’s confidence.

We kept going. A strong shot from Mykhailo Mudryk was parried. On forty-five minutes, Sterling was through, one on one, with only the ‘keeper to beat. Alas, his shot did not hit the target, instead it missed the right-hand post by yards rather than feet and inches. The crowd howled at the enormity of the miss.

There was redemption immediately after. Sterling created space on the left and his perfect cross was nimbly pushed home by Palmer.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 0.

Coasting.

Conor Gallagher let fly just before the break but his curling effort went just wide of the far post. I had been impressed with Mudryk in the first-half, not always potent going forward, but showing a much greater desire to put opponents under pressure, to close space, to tackle. There was a lot more energy from him.

He began the second-half with a fine bursting run.

On fifty-minutes, with Leicester City attacking their fans in The Shed, Disasi made a brilliantly-timed sliding tackle on a forward. Sadly, just seconds later the same defender, under pressure from Patson Daka, completely over hit a back-pass to Robert Sanchez. The ball always looked like dropping into the open net.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 1.

Fackinell.

Jackson broke away but hit the side netting to my left. Moises Caicedo’s strike was saved. But the gifted goal had given Leicester a lifeline and it felt like they had the bit between their teeth.

On sixty-two minutes, Stephy Mavididi danced away as he cut inside the Chelsea penalty box.

“Put a tackle in.”

The Leicester player shimmied and drove a fine effort into the Chelsea goal.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 2.

Fackinell.

Shots, both over, from Palmer and Mudryk.

On seventy-minutes, a strong run from Jackson ended with a challenge on the edge of the box by Callum Doyle. At first the referee seemed to signal a penalty. Then VAR stepped in. No penalty, but a free-kick on the edge of the box instead. But Doyle was off. Advantage Chelsea? Maybe.

But first we had the free-kick. There was the usual delay as the away team sorted out a wall, then made a substitution. We then we focussed on Palmer and Sterling, both seeming to want the ball.

We waited.

Palmer did not move.

Sterling strode forward.

His effort sailed ridiculously high and ridiculously wide.

I cupped the back of my head in my hands and turned to look away from the pitch in disbelief. Everyone behind me was equally as flabbergasted.

Good grief.

There were immediate boos.

On seventy-six minutes, Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Mudryk, and there were more boos. However, Mudryk was then clapped off by the home fans, especially those in the East Lower when he walked past them. He was warmly hugged by the manager.

On eighty minutes, ten minutes from the end of the game, I can honestly say that I heard the first real bone-crunching, lung-bursting, ear-piercing song from the Chelsea faithful.

“Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea, Chowlsea, Chowlsea.”

Eighty fucking minutes.

Sterling was booed when he had the ball.

My heart slumped.

Pathetic.

Everyone knows my thoughts about supporters…er…supporting.

The substitute Chukwuemeka went close with a curling shot that strayed past the post.

We penned Leicester in to the final third, even the final quarter of the pitch, but space was at a premium. Malo Gusto had been neat all of the way through the game and his confidence grows with each appearance. Some of his flicks under pressure were lovely.

We kept going. On eighty-three minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Sterling. There were boos; not for the substitution, but for Sterling.

I spotted many, though, in the MHU who were stood and clapped him off.

This warmed me a little.

Bad day at the office? Oh yes. But he didn’t deserve the level of nastiness aimed towards him – “Get him off, get him off, get him off!” – in that second-half.

A few late chances came and went. Jackson flashed over from close-in.

Where was Erland Johnsen when we needed him?

On ninety minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced Cucarella.

The Bloke Next To Me : “Please score, Chilwell.”

Our dominance continued as eight minutes of injury time were announced. It was quite a sight to see Carney and Ben doubling-up on one attack down the left.

On ninety-two minutes, Carney found a little space and cut in. The ball was played to Palmer. I expected him to set up Gallagher, but he took us all by surprise. Palmer back-heeled the ball perfectly into the path of Chukwuemeka who pushed the ball home.

GET IN.

Chelsea 3 Leicester City 2.

The place was alive at last.

On ninety-eight minutes, it was the turn of the second substitute, Madueke, to set the place alight. A fine dribble into the central area, a couple of step overs, and then a lofted curler into the top corner, right in line with yours truly.

Chelsea 4 Leicester City 2.

I managed to catch bits of the manic celebrations from the two late goals on film.

We made it, we’re off to Wembley yet again.

I walked back to the car and caught up with PD and Parky. The traffic was light and I was back home by 6pm, a very early finish to the day.

The weekend had been a success; a pleasing league win from my twenty-seventh Frome Town game of the season and a last-gasp win in the cup from my thirty-ninth Chelsea game of the season.

We now have a break – no Chelsea game for a fortnight, no Frome Town game for even longer – as winter turns to spring.

See you on the other side.

Fifty Favourite Games :

4 March 1978 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

25 October 1980 : Chelsea 6 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

13 February 1982 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0 – FA Cup.

27 August 1983 : Chelsea 5 Derby County 0 – Second Division.

22 November 1983 : Chelsea 4 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

10 March 1984 : Newcastle United 1 Chelsea 1 – Second Division.

31 March 1984 : Cardiff City 3 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

28 April 1984 : Chelsea 5 Leeds United 0 – Second Division.

25 August 1984 : Arsenal 1 Chelsea 1 – First Division.

1 December 1984 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

9 April 1986 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

13 September 1986 : Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 3 – First Division.

18 March 1989 : Manchester City 2 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

1 February 1992 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

3 November 1994 : Austria Memphis 1 Chelsea 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

14 March 1995 : Chelsea 2 Club Brugge 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

26 January 1997 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 2 – FA Cup.

17 May 1997 : Chelsea 2 Middlesbrough 0 – FA Cup.

16 April 1998 : Chelsea 3 Vicenza 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

13 May 1998 : Chelsea 1 Stuttgart 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

3 October 1999 : Chelsea 5 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 April 2000 : Chelsea 3 Barcelona 1 – Champions League.

13 March 2002 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – Premier League.

11 May 2003 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1 – Premier League.

8 March 2005 : Chelsea 4 Barcelona 2 – Champions League.

30 April 2005 : Bolton Wanderers 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

11 March 2006 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – Premier League.

29 April 2006 : Chelsea 3 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

3 April 2008 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2 : Champions League.

10 March 2009 : Juventus 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

8 April 2009 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 3 – Champions League.

14 April 2009 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4 – Champions League.

3 April 2010 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

2 May 2010 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 : Premier League.

9 May 2010 : Chelsea 8 Wigan Athletic 0 – Premier League.

14 March 2012 : Chelsea 4 Napoli 1 – Champions League.

15 April 2012 : Chelsea 5 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – FA Cup.

18 April 2012 : Chelsea 1 Barcelona 0 – Champions League.

24 April 2012 : Barcelona 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

19 May 2012 : Chelsea 1 Bayern Munich 1 (won 4-3 pens) – Champions League.

27 April 2014 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

1 March 2015 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – League Cup.

2 May 2016 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – Premier League.

23 October 2016 : Chelsea 4 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 November 2016 : Chelsea 5 Everton 0 – Premier League.

3 December 2016 : Manchester City 1 Chelsea 3 – Premier League.

22 April 2017 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – FA Cup.

12 May 2017 : West Bromwich Albion 0 Chelsea 1 – Premier League.

29 May 2019 : Chelsea 4 Arsenal 1 – Europa League.

29 May 2021 : Chelsea 1 Manchester City 0 – Champions League.

Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Posted on March 14, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. It stemmed from the interactions between myself and the other children at my village school in Somerset in the immediate aftermath of that iconic game. Perhaps I had heard that Chelsea were a good team or maybe I just liked the sound of the name. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear to my parents that I was a keen supporter of the “Pensioners” or the “Blues” in those early years.

Chelsea were my team. I suspect that my early devotion shocked my parents, who were not really into football at all. I can remember the horror when my paternal grandfather brought me back a Liverpool duffle bag from a coach trip to North Wales in the summer of 1971, not long before he passed away, and how he received the ire of both my parents and myself.

“But I like Chelsea.”

“Well, your mother told me to buy you something to do with football.”

I am sure that I didn’t reply with the expression “fackinell” at the age of six years old but I probably thought something along those lines.

I have no memory of the loss to Stoke City at Wembley in the League Cup Final at Wembley in 1972, but I remember the season-opener against Leeds United in the August of that year and I well remember the FA Cup tie with Arsenal in March 1973. My fanaticism grew with each year, each month, each game. I was given a Chelsea kit in around 1973. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling over fifty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on 16 March against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother had written to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest, to this day. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived, priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still being built on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team?

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins.
Micky Droy.
David Webb.
Chris Garland ( sub – Ken Swain.)
Peter Houseman.
Steve Kember.
Ian Hutchinson.
Charlie Cooke.

The gate was 24,207.

What do I remember of that afternoon? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minute; a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there were to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. A second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed. I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a second-half substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped that I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West Stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final, in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final, and also at the 2015 League Cup Final just a few days after my mother’s passing.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) on Fulham Broadway. Even to this day, I always look over at the site of it as I walk to Stamford Bridge. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

And here we all are, almost fifty years later and another match against the black and whites from Tyneside. I have explained before how annoyed I was that the exact fiftieth anniversary of my first ever game against Newcastle United narrowly missed an exact hit. There was, then, a hope that we would get them at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 16 March. But that missed too.

On the exact fiftieth anniversary, I will hopefully be watching a game at Frome Town against Yate Town. That’s not a bad place to be. I saw my first-ever “proper” game at Frome Town in the early part of the 1970/71 season.

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

Talking of Frome Town, on the Saturday before this year’s game with Newcastle United, I drove down to Bideford on the North Devon coast. It was a long old drive – almost two and a half hours – but very enjoyable. Just me and my thoughts, a little music, the Saturday all to myself. I paid a quick visit to “The Appledore Inn” just a few hundred yards away from the ground. In October 2020, I drove to Bideford for a Wednesday evening game but later that night in a nearby B&B I had a mild heart attack, to be followed by another a few days later. By the Saturday, I was in hospital in Bath awaiting surgery. On the Monday, two stents were fitted. So this trip to Bideford was always going to be an emotional one for me. I had visited the same pub in 2020 and I made a point of sitting in the same seat in the pub as in that previous visit. A few Frome friends arrived – Mark, Sumo, Steve, Stuey – and I told them this story. They asked why I was sat in the same seat. I suspect they thought it was tempting fate.

It was my way of saying “I am still here” and I lightly tapped the table.

The game was a scrappy affair, but a headed goal from James Ollis after Jon Davies dug out a deep cross from the goal-line gave Frome a huge three points. I watched the game from the impressive main stand, high above the action, with my old school mate Steve – our friendship really fired up in the Lower Sixth when we both realised that our football knowledge put us in a class of our own – and we chatted about all aspects of the sport.

The second-half had its share of hairy moments and I even invoked a heated exchange with two locals as their ‘keeper re-enacted a Schumacher / Battiston assault – from the 1982 World Cup – on substitute Sam Meakes. The ‘keeper was duly sent off and Frome held on. It was a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the North Devon drizzle. Around sixty Frome fans travelled. I loved it.

Back to Chelsea.

On match day, I collected my fellow passengers at 2pm in the pub car park opposite work and by 4.30pm all three had been deposited in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. I met up with PD and Parky in “The Elephant & Barrel”, formerly “The Rylston”, alongside Salisbury Steve and two lads from Boston in Massachusetts. I have known Ben, the Chapter Head of the Boston Blues, since around 2011, but this was my first meeting with Danny, who was at Stamford Bridge for a game for the very first time. It seemed right that on this occasion there was a Chelsea debutant in the party.

There was a nice mix of old and new; old pub, new pub, old friends, a new friend, old memories and new ones.

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

Danny wanted to hear a few stories, so I shared a few. I have several to choose from, cough, cough. We spoke about Newcastle’s awful record at Stamford Bridge in the league.

“Apart from the Papiss Cisse masterclass in 2012, they have not won here in the league since 1986.”

I was at that game in 1986, a 1-3 loss, and Ben was at that 0-2 game in 2012. I shuffled in my seat a little.

I devoured a chicken and gooseberry curry with coconut rice and the others supped some ales. It was a lovely pre-match. At around 7.15pm, we made our way down to the ground.

It is one of my biggest regrets that there is no photographic evidence of my first-ever Chelsea game. This is particularly surprising since my parents took hundreds of snaps of my childhood, yet somehow the camera was forgotten on that most momentous of occasions. I made sure that Ben took one of me outside the main gates to mark the – almost – anniversary of that match fifty years ago. The obligatory one of Danny at his first game soon followed.

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

I was inside, in The Sleepy Hollow, at 7.45pm.

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

A simple 1 to 11 is much better, isn’t it?

Yet again, the usual pre-match routine : The Clash, Blur, The Harry J. Allstars, the dimming of the lights, electronic pulses, flashes, flames, all culminating in “what the fookin’ ‘ell was that?” from the Geordies.

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

There was a quick chant of “We are the Geordie, the Geordie boot boys” and the game began. I quickly spotted a post by Ben on my ‘phone featuring his view of the game and it was clear that they were just below me in the MHL. There was a miss-hit from Djordje Petrovic in the first fleeting moments and the ball sliced away for a throw-in. We all grimaced.

In 1974, I had to wait ten minutes for my first-ever Chelsea goal. In 2024, Danny did not have to wait as long. After just six minutes, Cole Palmer flicked his brush towards the right wing, painting a lovely ball out to Malo Gusto, who advanced. His low cross was kicked away but it could only reach Palmer. I felt that he didn’t really fancy a shot at goal with his right foot, but he smacked the ball goal wards. Nicolas Jackson was in the line of fire, but a nimble adjustment meant that his slight flick of a leg allowed the ball to slip past Martin Dubravka in The Shed goal.

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

The first-half summed up much of our season. It was good in parts, yet frustrating too.

Our blind determination to play it out from the back wound most fans up, and there was a cheer when Petrovic went long on one occasion. Much has been written about this “playing out from the goal line” this season, but we have not remotely perfected it. It annoys me, as it did in this game, to see Jackson with just one man close to him, in yards of space, yet a quick punt up field is hardly ever chosen as an alternative way to attack. On the occasions when Petrovic decided to go long, he annoyingly waited until the Newcastle defence was set. The art of a quick break seems to be lost in 2024.

We enjoyed most of the chances, however fleeting. A shot from Jackson was claimed by Dubravka. A run from Palmer picked out Enzo in a decent central position but his effort curled over the bar.

The visitors’ efforts were rare. However, on forty-three minutes, the Chelsea defence went into circus mode. The otherwise impressive Gusto attempted keepie-uppy and lost control. Trevoh Chalobah then lost the ball too and it was not cleared. The ball was flicked to Alexander Isak, who danced inside and smacked a fine shot past Petrovic at the far post. They celebrated down below us.

1-1.

Just after, an early ball – at last – to Jackson who did ever so well to dribble past Dubravka and slot home. Alas, he had not beaten the offside trap. No goal.

In the last move of the half, nice interplay between Palmer and Gusto resulted in a deep cross to the far post. A fine header back from Conor Gallagher set up Raheem Sterling and as he took a touch and closed in on goal I could only think of one thing –

“Hit one of the corners.”

He didn’t. His shot was right at Dubravka.

I was relatively happy with the performance at half-time. I had seen a lot worse this season. There had been, as always “glimpses” of decent play. In the programme – some really decent articles at the moment – there were lovely pieces on Hughie Gallacher and Colin Lee.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. However, it was the visitors attacking The Shed who engineered the first chance. Chalobah cheaply surrendered the ball, and it was moved out to the left. Miguel Almiron raced away but his angled riser was pushed over by Petrovic.

Phew.

A teasing run from the fleet-footed Palmer took him deep into the Newcastle box but his low cross evaded everyone. Sterling was on the end of a swift break but he seemed to lack conviction and was forced wide. His weak shot missed the goal frame.

On sixty-three minutes, an incisive ball from Enzo found Palmer. Before we knew it, he had touched the ball on and then swept a low shot effortlessly towards goal. The ‘keeper was beaten. It was a lovely finish and the place erupted. To my joy, the scorer raced over to our corner to say hello.

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

Palmer has certainly made this season a lot more palatable. Imagine 2023/24 without him. Shudder.

A long ball out of defence by the redoubtable Gusto was superbly headed on by Jackson. Sterling raced through and was clear, one on one with Dubravka. My camera was poised. Alas, he dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, and lost his way. Eventually, his shot was cleared off the line.

Dan Burn had a rare chance for the visitors. The towering defender headed wide.

On sixty-nine minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling. There was an odd mixture of applause and mild booing. Answers on a postcard.

On seventy-six minutes, Jackson broke with a flash of speed out on the left. My camera tracked his fine run. The ball was played square towards Gallagher, but Mudryk arrived on the scene like a runaway train and took the ball on. His momentum carried him forward. A slight shimmy and Dubravka was sent sprawling. He rounded the ‘keeper and slotted in from an angle, with a defender unable to hack away.

What a goal.

3-1.

I screamed and screeched as I held my camera close and snapped. Who says geezers can’t multitask?

Mudryk was on fire, full of confidence, and mesmerized us all with another burst of speed but was unable to finish. We all want him to succeed so much.

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

Sadly, the otherwise solid Marc Cucarella lunged in and allowed a blast from distance from Jacob Murphy. It arrowed into the Shed End goal. It was some strike.

3-2.

Blimey.

Thankfully, the six minutes of extra-time soon passed and we held on.

At the end of the game, just before “Blue Is The Colour” segued into “Freed From Desire”, I spotted Ben and Danny down below. Their smiles were wide.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I enjoyed the evening. It wasn’t perfect, but we showed enough to warrant the win. I wasn’t that impressed with the visitors. It had been 4-1 to them in November and it was 3-2 to us in March. We edged the League Cup tie in December. There might even be another game yet, in the FA Cup, later this season.

Talking of which, the FA Cup follows on Sunday with a game against Leicester City at Stamford Bridge. See you there.

Tales From Snow, Sun And Rain

Posted on March 5, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 2 March 2024.

The week was a busy one. Monday; travel back from London. Tuesday; work and a blog late that evening. Wednesday; an early start for work, the Leeds game, and a late return home. Thursday; work and a catch up on some sleep. Friday; work and a blog in the evening.

Saturday was another day, another football day, and another early start. However, on waking at 6am I was in for a surprise. Without any hint of a warning there was snow outside. I couldn’t immediately tell if the snow was light or heavy, but the snow on the road at the end of my driveway didn’t look too deep. PD and I exchanged texts. I warned him that I might be a little late. The plan had been to call at his house in Frome at 7am. I contemplated changing my route, keeping to busier roads, but as I drove out and through the village, it was clear that the snow was of no risk to myself or my car. In fact, it was starting to melt already. I called at PD’s house at 7.02am. Game on.

The match at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was a case of getting back to normal after the highs and lows – or vice versa – of games in the League Cup and the FA Cup. An away game in West London? What could be more straightforward than that, at least from a planning perspective.

We called for Parky at 7.30am and stopped at the local “McDonalds” in Melksham for sustenance. The trip to London was easy. There was no more snow, with only outbreaks of rain at times, as I made my way up the M4. There was drizzle at Heston Services. I had booked a “JustPark” spot on a private driveway in a cul-de-sac just yards from the River Thames from 10am, and I was parked up at 9.59am. If only the rest of the day could go as well.

This was Chelsea’s fourth match at Brentford’s new stadium and it seems like there have been more visits. Going in to the game, we were unbeaten; two wins and a draw. However, the Bees have had our number at Stamford Bridge in the top flight; three wins out of three visits. Despite them being in the midst of a poor run of form, and now with players missing, nobody expected an easy game. I know two Brentford season ticket holders. One, Chris – from work – was not expecting great things from his team. I could say the same about mine.

I had planned a gentle stroll along the northern bank of the River Thames. At about 10.15am, we found a window booth in “The Bull’s Head”, a quaint and quiet pub that seemed geared up to dining rather than drinking. There has been an inn on this site for over four-hundred years. The young lad serving us our drinks was a Brentford fan and was off to the game later. Outside, the rain. Inside, a few giggles. We were joined by our friends Aroha and Luke at 10.45am.

From there, a very short walk to “The City Barge”, another lovely pub, more open-plan than the first one, dating from the fourteenth century. We reached there at 11.45am and were joined by our friend Ricky. More chit-chat, more laughs. There were not too many football colours on show in these first two pubs.

At 1pm, we walked a couple of hundred yards west to “The Bell & Crown” which we visited on the previous two matches in December 2021 and October 2022. It’s another lovely pub, full of diners, but also football fans – Brentford fans – too. There were many red and white scarves on show. We spotted Cliff and Tim – Chelsea, no colours – enjoying a meal at virtually the same table as in 2022/23. Ricky chatted to me about his take on Brentford fans. Despite growing up in Hammersmith, he has only ever known a couple of them. They are an elusive breed for sure. He likened their support to that of rugby fans. A bit middle-class? A bit quiet? Maybe. I have always been surprised how quiet they are at Brentford.

But this is a great part of the world, a great location for a pre-game pub-crawl. I loved every minute of it. Brentford was quickly becoming one of my favourite away venues. In London, it would rank as number one, ahead of Fulham, Tottenham, Arsenal, Crystal Palace and West Ham – in that order – in the current top flight.

At 2.15pm, we set off for the game.

From the last pub near Kew Bridge to the stadium is only a ten-minute walk. The approach to the away turnstiles takes you along newly-cobbled streets, squeezed in beneath towering apartment blocks, an echo of the new Wembley that I have grown to despise. It’s an odd approach to a football stadium. Once through the first security checks, you plunge down steps to a lower level, then are shuffled along to find a turnstile that has less of a queue. It’s all very tight. The ground is hemmed in by two railway lines and a road. Sound familiar?

I was in at 2.40pm.

I was alongside Pete, John, Gary and Parky in row six of the east stand. We were behind the goal but not far from the corner flag. PD was across the way in the north stand. I saw familiar faces everywhere I looked. Luke and Rick were in the last row where it rises up at an angle. There are odd angles everywhere at the Gtech. It even sounds like a geometric puzzle.

After hints of rain all day, it was at least dry as kick-off approached. I spotted a fan with a handmade sign that summed up the zeitgeist at Chelsea Football Club perfectly well.

“I don’t want your shirt!! I want you to fight for ours.”

Well said that man.

The team?

2. Disasi.

8. Fernandez.

14. Chalobah.

15. Jackson.

20. Palmer.

21. Chilwell.

23. Gallagher.

25. Caicedo.

26. Colwill.

27. Gusto.

28. Petrovic.

“Hey Jude” – an odd anthem – and the players entered to our left.

There were two team huddles.

Then a moment to reflect on the life of Stan Bowles, who recently passed away after a long battle with dementia at the age of seventy-five. Although he played most of his football at Queens Park Rangers, he also played at Brentford from 1981 to 1984 at a time when Ron Harris was the Brentford first team coach under Fred Callaghan. I saw Bowles play once against Chelsea, a horrific 1-3 home loss in the horrific 1978/79 season. He was some player; the definition of the football maverick of the ‘seventies. He might well be QPR’s most-loved player.

RIP.

The game began and I spent far too much of the early segment of the game trying to work out if Colwill, Chalobah and Disasi were a three at the back with Cilwell and Gusto as wing-backs, or if there was a flat back four with Chilwell in some advanced role that only he knew about.

The game began with Chelsea attacking the west end of the stadium. Chelsea dominated most of the early possession. I had to keep my eyes on the reinstated Ivan Toney, though. A ridiculous number of Chelsea fans had said that they expected him to score against us.

There was a half-chance for Enzo. It ended up going off for a corner. From the resulting cross, Axel Disasi headed on to the top of the net.

There was a rare chance for the home team, that man Toney, but Colwill snuffed it out. But then they improved a little and Yoane Wissa went close on two occasions. Then, from a long free-kick from the Brentford ‘keeper, a knock on and Wissa connected acrobatically. Thankfully, his shot was straight into the arms of Petrovic.

Nicolas Jackson twice found himself in good positions. On one occasion, he attempted one too many step overs and the ball was lost. Later, Conor Gallagher passed to Enzo, who set him up perfectly. Jackson rolled the ball past Mark Flekken in the Brentford goal, but seemed to take forever to decide which foot was best suited to knock the ball in to a waiting – and empty – net. We all groaned as Zanka arrived from nowhere to clear.

By this time, The Bloke Behind Me was annoying me with his constant berating of Jackson. It all got too tiresome, too tedious, too much.

There was bright sunlight now, with shadows appearing as the players danced in front of us. I wish I had brought my Ray Bans which had been stupidly discarded inside my car. Our hands shielded the sun instead.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful cross from the effervescent and bubbly Malo Gusto was met by the leap of Jackson, and I watched with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction as the ball was headed down and in.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

After a few seconds of manic yelping, I quietly and silently turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and held a forefinger in front of my pursed lips.

The Bloke Behind Me smiled.

Brentford 0 Chelsea 1.

Phew.

The away section, all standing of course, roared – a la “Chelsea Agro” – a new chant.

“Malo Gusto. Malo Gusto. Hello. Hello.”

The heavens opened and we were treated to a wet end to the half, fans and players alike, despite the sun still shining. A metaphor for our season, our recent seasons maybe?

To annoy The Bloke Behind Me further, in the closing moments of the first period Jackson came in from the wing but could only force a save from Flekken.

It had been a decent-enough half. Gusto was the undoubted star, but Moises Caicedo had put in another solid shift. But it was no more than that; decent enough. We had tons of the ball, but we were not always linking in the right players at the right time. The home team were limited to a few testing breakaways.

The second-half began with Chelsea trying to attack the eastern end, where our 1,800 supporters were stood. However, our old problem of conceding soon after the break came back to haunt us. Just five minutes after the re-start, a ball was lumped into the box. It fell at the feet of Sergio Reguilon, who took a heavy touch.

“That could go anywhere.”

The Chelsea defenders were slow to react and Mads Roerslev rushed in to slam the ball home.

Bollocks.

Brentford 1 Chelsea 1.

Just after, we gave away possession way too easily and Vitaly Janelt had time to painstakingly shoot at goal. It hit the base of a post. Phew.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

The rain came again. But the sun stayed too. I sheltered my camera with my hand.

On the hour, that man Gusto raided down the right and found Cole Palmer. His side-footed effort had us dreaming and then squirming. It rolled a few yards past the post.

Fackinell.

Brentford peppered our goal via two efforts from Wissa and Reguilon. Our game was falling apart. On sixty-nine minutes, Reguilon was given far too much space out on the Brentford left and was allowed to cross. From a bouncing ball, Wissa scissor-kicked with great grace and the ball crashed into the net.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 1.

Oh bloody hell.

On seventy minutes, a tirade of negative noise from the Chelsea section.

“Roman Abramovich.”

“Boehly – You’re A Cunt.”

“Fuck Off Mauricio.”

“Jose Mourinho.”

I grimaced in silence. I suspect that I was not alone. There is a time for protest, but what became of the notion of turning up at Chelsea games and endeavouring, how bad the performance, to get behind the club and its players? I have mentioned this over the years and I have no qualms in mentioning it again.

“Players play. Managers manage. Supporters support.”

Isn’t that right? Please tell me otherwise.

We can moan like fuck in internet chat rooms, on forums, in pubs and bars, in coaches and cars, and we can bring placards to Stamford Bridge and prod them at directors and we can remonstrate and demonstrate before and after games, but – please – lets honour those ninety minutes as being the sacred time in which we try our hardest to support our players.

In the snow. In the sun. In the rain.

Fair weather. Foul weather.

Good times. Bad times.

On the pitch, we continued to struggle.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Chilwell seemed unwilling to close a player down, thus allowing a cross from the Brentford right. The ball was inch perfect. Reguilon rose between two defenders but his strong header hit the post.

I am bloody fed up of writing the names Reguilon and Wissa.

The beleaguered manager made some changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Raheem Sterling for Colwill.

I liked the look of Sterling straight away. He posed questions that others were not keen to ask. Chances for Gallagher and Palmer. With eighty-three minutes gone and from a short corner – Mudryk to Palmer – the ball was looped in to perfection.

I saw two blue shirts jump. This was a goal. It had to be. Disasi crashed it in.

Yes.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 2.

Yes!

Almost ironically, the Chelsea crowd uttered a current favourite.

“Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

Oh boy.

Chances continued – Sterling came so close after a twisting run into the six yard box – but the game soon ran out of time.

We met up in the away concourse and hobbled back to the car. We all shared the same opinions about everything.

“Fair result.”

“Poor game.”

“Two poor teams.”

My route up onto the M4 from the parking spot took me right underneath those towering blocks next to the away entrance, along that very same narrow road that we had walked along three hours previously. I was on the west-bound M4 in very good time – a quick exit is another reason why I like going to Brentford – and I was back home by 8pm, a very early finish for a change.

A wait now, but there is an anniversary of sorts on Monday 11 March.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

See you there.

Tales From 1970 And All That

Posted on March 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 28 February 2024.

After the defeat at Wembley on Sunday, we reconvened down at “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham – via a pint at “The Sawyers Arms” at Paddington – and although our spirits were low, a decent evening ensued. We spent three hours or so in the company of Johnny Twelve from California and also Rob and Karl from Hersham. Suffice to say, the drinks flowed and the smiles returned. However, on waking in the Premier Inn opposite the pub the next morning, I could not stifle a brief “I hate football” from flitting into my head.

But these were a busy few days for Chelsea Football Club.

Next up was our first FA Cup tie against Leeds United since the 1970 FA Cup Final and subsequent replay. It was a busy time for me too. As Monday passed and as I toiled over the Wembley blog late into Tuesday, I managed to “let go” of the result on Sunday and I tried my best to look forward to the game on Wednesday.

I was in early at work on the day of the game, but I could not get something out of my head. Back in 1986, Chelsea exited both domestic cups within the space of four days; we lost at home to Liverpool in the FA Cup on Sunday 26 January and at home to QPR on Wednesday 29 January. I sincerely hoped that there would be no repeat thirty-eight years later.

PD and Parky had enjoyed a pub lunch and PD had then picked-up Ron Harris at 1.45pm. At just after 2pm, in the car park of “The Milk Churn” pub in Melksham, I stood with Ron as PD took a photo of the two of us. It seemed right that on the occasion of the first Chelsea vs. Leeds United FA Cup game in fifty-four years, we should mark the start of the drive to Chelsea in this manner.

As I pulled out of the car park, I realised once again how absolutely lucky I am to be able to drive our captain from those glory years up to Stamford Bridge.

1970, eh?

While Ron was busy leading the team to those two classic games, I was just starting out on a football life of my own.

I began my school days at the age of for years and nine months, probably just before the Wembley Cup Final on Saturday 11 April. In the ensuing few months, I would choose Chelsea as my team, although the exact reason or reasons are not crystal clear. In my memory, it’s down to a list of a few motives. It has to be said that until school, my parents told me that I wasn’t particularly interested in football.

Maybe I liked the name “Chelsea”. Maybe, after the replay at Old Trafford on 29 April, some school pals told me that “Chelsea had won the cup” (there is no recollection at all of me watching it, sadly) or maybe I had worked out that Chelsea were a good team. In a nutshell, Chelsea were the talk of the town, or at least the school playground, in the April and May of 1970 and I became a fan.

I’ve had quite a journey, eh?

And here I was, aged fifty-eight and seven months, driving the captain of that team to a game against Leeds United so many years later.

As I approached London, I could not resist asking Ron a question.

“Ron. Of the two games at Wembley and Old Trafford in 1970, what is your one stand out memory?”

“After the first game, Dave Sexton told me that I would swap positions with Webby, who had been given the biggest run-around I had ever seen by Eddie Gray, and in the second-game he never got a kick.”

The response did not surprise me at all. It is the classic moment from both games aside from the goals.

The 1970 FA Cup Final is so iconic, so fantastic, and so important to the history of the competition and to Chelsea Football Club alike. But it is, undoubtedly, so important for me too, although I did not even watch the games at the time.

It was a game-changer.

I knew that Chelsea were issuing a programme for the game that would feature a cover photograph of the jubilant Chelsea players at Old Trafford, with Chopper holding the trophy alongside a few team mates, and I liked that. Sometimes Chelsea get it right.

As time moves on, though, it has been sad to see so many players from both teams pass away over the years. Of the twenty-two starters at Old Trafford, only ten remain.

Chelsea.

Peter Bonetti : 20 April 2020, aged 78.
Ron Harris – aged 79
Eddie McCreadie – aged 83.
John Hollins : 14 June 2023, aged 76.
John Dempsey – aged 77.
David Webb – aged 77.
Tommy Baldwin : 22 January 2024, aged 78.
Charlie Cooke – aged 81.
Peter Osgood : 1 March 2006, aged 59.
Ian Hutchinson : 19 September 2002, aged 54.
Peter Houseman : 20 March 1977, aged 31.

Leeds United.

David Harvey – aged 76.
Paul Madeley : 23 July 2018, aged 73.
Terry Cooper : 31 July 2021, aged 77.
Billy Bremner : 7 December 1997, aged 54.
Jack Charlton : 10 July 2020, aged 85.
Norman Hunter : 20 April 2020, aged 76.
Peter Lorimer : 20 March 2021, aged 74.
Alan Clarke – aged 77.
Mick Jones – aged 78.
Johnny Giles – aged 83.
Eddie Gray – aged 76.

I dropped off PD and Parky at the bottom of the North End Road and I dropped off Ron outside the main gates. As I slowly retraced my steps back to my usual parking place, police sirens were wailing.

Leeds were in town.

At about 5.15pm, I popped into an Italian restaurant on the Lillee Road – “Pizza@Home” – for the first time and I enjoyed some lovely food. I then dipped into “Café Ole” at the bottom of the North End Road once more for a large cappuccino. It was all about staying out of the rain for as long as I could. Funnily enough, there was a bundle of friends at “Café Ole” – Pete, Liz, Mark, Scott, Paul, Gerry, Tom, Leigh, Darren – probably all with the same need to keep dry.

I had a nice talk with Tom, the first one for ages.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at about 7pm. PD told me that, should we beat Leeds, we would play host to Leicester City in the Quarter-Finals.

Mixed blessings.

I was angling for a dream draw of Newcastle United at home on Saturday 16 March as it would mark the fiftieth anniversary of my very first game against the same opposition. But I was relatively happy with a home draw. I hoped that the game would be played on the Saturday though. Outside of a home draw, we all wanted Coventry City. Ah well, it was not to be.

PD ran through the team.

“We’re playing with three wingers. Sterling, Madueke, Mudryk.”

I had swapped out with Parky to allow him a seat next to PD in The Sleepy Hollow. There were around six-thousand noisy Leeds fans in The Shed, their largest away following at Stamford Bridge in over fifty-years, maybe ever.

At about 7.15pm, Ron Harris was interviewed pitch side with club historian Rick Glanvil as they spoke about the 1970 FA Cup Final and its place in football folklore. Amazingly, the replay was watched by 28.49 million people. It is at number six in the list of the highest-ever TV audiences in the UK, alongside royal weddings, royal funerals and England games. Apart from the “Matthews Final” of 1953, it is probably the most famous FA Cup Final of them all.

The usual dimming of lights and fireworks, but then the shock of Leeds in an all pink kit, albeit one with a shirt that resembled a polyester outfit from the ‘seventies that Mrs. Slocombe might wear at a Grace Brothers night out.

Hideous.

Time to sort the team out. I had a look.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Gilchrist

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Mudryk – Sterling

Jackson

I had forgotten that Ethan Ampadu was now full-time at Leeds United after three relegations on loan to Sheffield United, Venezia and Spezia. Eddie Gray’s great-nephew Archie was playing for the visitors. He is the son of Andy Gray, who I remember at Leeds, and the grandson of Frank Gray who I also remember at Leeds.

Conclusion : I am getting old.

The visitors in The Shed noisily shouted “We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds” and Enzo kicked the ball back to a team mate.

We were off.

The pink visitors attacked us in the Matthew Harding. Mudryk was in the “Number 10” slot, the space recently occupied by Cole Palmer. We began on top.

I noted many empty seats during the first few minutes but most filled. There were, however a few hundred unused seats in the top corners of Westview all game.

I was just getting settled, making a mental note of all the songs that the visitors were singing at us, when a lumped ball from deep released Daniel James who had lost the back-tracking Alfie Gilchrist. The Leeds player lobbed the ball just wide of the goal frame.

From the goal-kick following this miss, a typical Chelsea disaster of 2023/24 occurred right in front of me. Sanchez played the ball to Axel Disasi who he chose not to clear his lines, no doubt under instruction from the management. He played the ball into the feet of Moises Caicedo, even though there were three opponents close by. Possession was lost, Jaidon Anthony pushed the ball square to Mateo Joseph who slammed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

The away hordes roared.

After just eight minutes we were one-nil down.

The away end went through a few favourites.

“Should I be Chelsea, should I be Leeds, here’s what she said to me.”

“Let’s go fucking mental, let’s go fucking mental.”

“Marching on together.”

We tried to retaliate immediately, with Sterling setting up Enzo but his low effort flew past Ilian Meslier’s post.

On fifteen minutes, we constructed a really fine move down the right, with a smattering of one-touch passes. Jackson back to Disasi, to Gusto, inside to Jackson, to Madueke, to Caicedo and a killer pass to Jackson, who carefully guided the ball home.

Lovely goal.

It was back to 1-1.

Another shot from Enzo, but easily stopped by Meslier.

“Come on Chelsea, Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

A slashed effort from an angle by Madueke that only hit the side-netting. Another shot from Madueke was so high and wide that it almost defied description. Mudryk went close at an angle. At a corner, Mudryk took Shedloads of abuse from the Leeds fans.

“You’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit.”

Leeds countered occasionally. For some reason, their right-winger James (he scored against us in his first game for Manchester United in August 2019) reminded me of Eddie Gray, his build and his running style.

On thirty-seven minutes, another fine move down our right. The ball was worked centrally at first, Caicedo to Chalobah to Madueke. As so often happens, he chose to dribble laterally, but in doing so encountered some space. He pushed the ball between defenders to Gusto on the right. A touch, a prod into Sterling, and a cutback to Mudryk, and a first-time finish, sweeping it low past the ‘keeper. Another great goal.

He stood in front of his detractors.

“Ви казали?”

We were 2-1 up.

The visitors were not impressed.

“2-1 and you still don’t sing.”

Leeds came again and James fired over from a free-kick. Jaidon Anthony ghosted in from the left and thumped one that just missed the far post.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

At the break, it was time to reflect on the first-half. We had scored two nice goals, but some of our build-up play was just too slow. Moises Caicedo was the best of our bunch, strong in the tackle, decent passing, holding it all together. We had done just enough.

Alas, in the second-half, we didn’t do much at all.

Leeds began the stronger and after a while it dawned on me that we had hardly strung more than two passes together. On fifty-eight minutes, with the Chelsea crowd not involved and docile, Ampadu swung a long cross over to Anthony. I was dismayed that Gusto did not make a stab at the ball, allowing a long cross towards the far post where Joseph was able to leap, totally unmarked, and head down and in.

It was now 2-2.

On sixty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Conor Gallagher for Madueke.

Ben Chilwell for Gusto.

Chilwell to left-back, Gilchrist to right-back, Gallagher to the middle, Mudryk to the left, Sterling to the right.

Our play went to pieces.

“We’re second-best here.”

A shot from Anthony was deflected but its trajectory stayed close to Sanchez.

Our passing was off, our intensity had slowed, we had stopped doing the small things. We looked so tired.

Mudryk crossed high but Jackson was always underneath it.

On seventy-four minutes, more changes.

Levi Colwill for Gilchrist.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Disasi to right-back, Colwill in the middle, Palmer on the left.

We still struggled. We all began to wonder about extra-time and penalties, another late night.

On the ninetieth minute, there was really fine play from Enzo who fought to retain possession on the left and he scurried forward. He spotted the run of Gallagher and slotted a beautiful pass into him. Gallagher’s touch was exquisite and despite being squeezed by two Leeds defenders, he lifted the ball over Meslier.

Get in you beauty.

Now it was our turn to scream and shout.

Stamford Bridge roared, but how I wished that it had been roaring all night.

In injury-time, a debut was given to Jimi Tauriainen, whose first moment of action was to foul a Leeds defender; obviously he had read the script.

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

At the end, “Freed From Desire “ and “One Step Beyond”

We can’t really grumble about getting home draws all of the way through the two domestic cups this season can we? Eight out of eight.

Wimbledon.

Brighton.

Blackburn Rovers.

Newcastle United.

Preston North End.

Aston Villa.

Leeds United.

Leicester City.

During the day, I had joked to a few people about the game against Leeds.

“Yeah, looking forward to it. But what’s the end goal? Get to another Cup Final at Wembley and lose that one too?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, mobs of Leeds made their way back to waiting cars and coaches. I had not seen so many police at Chelsea in years.

On the walk back to the car, Ron Harris explained that Eddie Gray was with the Leeds board at Stamford Bridge and had asked to be linked up with his old adversary from 1970. The two former players spent thirty minutes in each other’s company. In fact, Eddie Gray did the exact same thing on his last visit to Chelsea last season. I admired that. These old warriors must love to meet up and share stories of that game and others.

“How old is Eddie Gray, Ron? Same age as you?”

“Couple years younger, I think.”

“Right.”

We walked on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. When he played against you in 1970 he was younger. But after the replay, I heard that he aged significantly.”

Ron smiled.

I soon escaped from London and for the first time that I can remember I didn’t stop once until I pulled up at “The Milk Churn” at about midnight. I was home by 12.40am, a relatively early night.

Right then, back to the league now. Brentford on Saturday. See you there.