About Chris Axon

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

Tales From The Loyal Three Thousand

Posted on December 9, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2023.

Originally the plan was to stay up in the North-West for four nights, taking in the matches at Manchester United and Everton without the need to travel up and back twice. I had booked accommodation near Piccadilly for Wednesday night, and accommodation near Goodison Park for the other three nights. With it being our last-ever visit to the old lady, I thought it worthwhile to base ourselves in Liverpool, exploring some previously unvisited areas – North Wales maybe – while being close to the stadium for one last hurrah.

That was the plan.

And then Frome Town buggered it all up.

The Mighty Dodge drew ex-Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. Well, I couldn’t miss that. I even thought about leaving PD and Parky in Liverpool and driving to Frome on the Saturday. But then Parky decided that he needed to make other arrangements and we chose to cancel both stays.

At 1pm I collected PD in Frome and we began our journey north. It honestly did not seem too long ago that I last visited Old Trafford; it came at the end of last season, the first of two games in Manchester in a mere five days.

It’s a well-worn path. This would be my twenty-eighth away game with Chelsea at Old Trafford. It used to be a decent hunting ground. However, those days seem a long time ago. It is now over ten years since our last win at United, a lone strike from Juan Mata giving us the points in May 2013. Alex Ferguson announced that he would retire as United manager the very next day. I would like to think that the two are linked.

We reached “The Windmill” at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 at 4.45pm and we had a bite to eat. At 6pm, I set off on the last stretch. Alas, we were hit with tiresome traffic congestion as we crawled along the A56 through Altrincham and Sale, and then eventually along Chester Road and into Stretford. Past the old Art Deco cinema. Past the new McDonalds where “The Drum” used to be, past the shopping centre. We were parked up at 7.15pm.

It was a clear night. A little cold. No rain.

I am sure I could walk this last section in my sleep. It is so familiar.

Across Gorse Hill Park. The floodlights of the cricket ground to my right. Back onto the Chester Road again. Past a lot of new buildings, much changed in the last fifteen years. But still that working men’s club on the right. A new car dealership. The hot dog stand. The steel of Old Trafford across the way. That large “Tesco” on the right. A new pop-up bar on the other pavement, a re-furbished 20’ sea container. Those tower blocks to the left. The trot over the road. “The Bishop Blaize” pub. The line of fast food places as you walk up to the cross-roads. Red-brick terraced houses beyond. Lou Macari’s chip shop. People queueing for food. The pungent smell of vinegar. The grafters selling match day scarves. Onto Sir Matt Busby Way. The bloke yelling out “United We Stand” and yet more stalls selling scarves and tat. The crowds getting deeper, a mix of accents. The line of police as the forecourt is reached. The neon signage on the East Stand. The Munich memorial. The Munich clock. The slope down to the away turnstiles. The hunt for familiar faces.

“Kim!”

I spotted Kim, from the US, now residing in Liverpool, and I handed over her match ticket. We bump into each other at a variety of locations – the last one a boat in Bristol harbour – and this was her first visit to Old Trafford for a few years.

It’s always the biggest away game for me, this one. It’s a classic battle. North vs. South. Red vs. Blue. Manchester vs. London. Old Trafford. The largest club ground in the UK. The scene of our 1970 FA Cup win. The scene of our 1915 FA Cup loss. Some huge battles over the decades.

My SLR is banned at both Manchester stadia and so I again wanted to take a few photos of the match-going support, close-up, rather than rely on too many grainy and fuzzy action shots using my smaller camera. There was a mandatory search and I was in. It was 7.50pm.

There was a new vantage point for me for this one. I am usually positioned in the curve above the corner flag. This time I was in Section 233, square behind the goal-line, a few yards inside the pitch. I was only a few seats away from the home fans. It allowed me a few new angles of Old Trafford for which I was grateful.

This was an 8.15pm kick-off. This relatively new kick-off time, at the behest of Amazon, seems particularly pernicious. An extra twist of the knife for match-going fans. There seemed to be no valid reason for it. Why not stage all of “their” midweek games at 7.30pm? With an 8.15pm start, it’s more tiredness, more pain, more stress, especially for those pour souls who were straight back in to work the next morning.

Alan, alongside me in row seven had travelled up by coach. There were no trains back to London after the game. He aimed to get back home to South London by around 6am, another couple of days of annual leave used up, just like me.

Kev, a few rows behind me, had travelled up with some friends from the Bristol area, and although his father Brian was taking a turn to drive, Kev would be back in work at 6am on the Thursday, the poor sod.

Despite the ridiculous kick-off time, our end was full. Three thousand strong. But of course. We may be going through a tough spell but the clamour for away tickets is as frenzied as ever. I saw no gaps in our section. Not one.

Top marks.

Before the kick-off, I met up with Pete from Texas. His wife, a United fan, was in The Stretford End.

The teams entered the pitch from the corner. I had not yet seen the team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

The home team had a mixture of names that I was and wasn’t overly familiar with. This isn’t the team of Rooney, Ronaldo, Ferdinand and Evra.

It isn’t even the team of Coppell, Buchan, Hill and Macari.

The current United team is not known in my household.

The game began.

I had heard a new song in the crowded concourse before the game and here it was again.

“Who’s that twat who comes from Portsmouth?”

Well, Mason Mount wasn’t even playing, nor was he even on the bench.

We were under the cosh from the start and in the fourth minute Robert Sanchez collapsed well to finger-tip an angled shot from Rasmus Hojland, whoever he is, past the far post. It was all United.

On nine minutes, after another United attack, the referee signalled a penalty after VAR was called into action. I did not know why the penalty was given. There is no TV screen at Old Trafford. There was just the briefest of mentions of the penalty on the scoreboard in the corner of the Stretford End. So, I was left in the dark as Bruno Fernandes tee’d up the penalty. I lifted up my camera to capture the kick. With everyone stood, I saw nothing. I just heard a roar and I immediately tried to ascertain, in a nanosecond, if the roar was from us or from them. It was from us.

GET IN.

I had no idea if the ‘keeper had touched it, but I did not care one jot.

It was still 0-0.

Not long after, Cole Palmer intercepted a pass from Sofyan Amrabat, whoever he is, and the ball fell to Nicolas Jackson. He passed to Mykhailo Mudryk who tamely shot against the near post.

Gary wasn’t sure who the United midfielder was and we both said that he looked like Juan Sebastian Veron.

“Don’t worry, we’ll sign him in the summer.”

United were carving us open, with their wide men enjoying tons of space. I didn’t like how Levi Colwill, the night’s captain, was not close to his man, while Raheem Sterling was reluctant to double-back and help Marc Cucarella, who often had to cope with two or even three men running at him. A shot from Alejandro Garnacho was saved by Sanchez and in the immediate break, Mudryk must have been overwhelmed as he raced forward with players in support to his left and right. In the end, his pass to the right to Sterling was awful, and was easily intercepted.

Shots were exchanged. Antony at Sanchez. Enzo at Onana.

Possession was given up easily. It was as if the ball was an unexploded bomb awaiting detonation. The ball was nobody’s friend. On twenty minutes, a move down our right carved us open, and when the ball came back to Scott McTominay, the midfielder purposefully volleyed it low and into the net. He celebrated down below us.

More mistakes followed. And chances. A poor touch by Jackson allowed Onana to block.

It frustrated the living hell out of all of us to see Chelsea continue to play the ball out from the back. This well-rehearsed ploy attempted to entice United on, allowing us to cut them open with a series of blistering passes played with cutthroat precision that would lead to devastating counter-attacks.

“Er…what?”

Our passing throughout the first-half was to prove to be our Achilles heel. Yet United were almost as bad. This was no remake of the 2008 Champions League Final.

On the half-hour, Jackson set up Mudryk. He drove on in the inside left channel but his effort was as tame as they come, the ball idly missing the near post by yards.

The mood in the away end was of frustration and then perhaps even anger.

I noted how Cole Palmer often came deep in an effort to knit things together but he found it oh-so difficult. Enzo was quiet. Caicedo non-existent.

Approaching the last five minutes of the first-half, I quickly tallied up that it could have been 5-3.

Crazy game.

With Harry Maguire finding himself in an advanced position on their right down below us, the tall centre-back adeptly back-heeled the ball to a team mate and the United fans in the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand collectively laughed.

On forty-five minutes, Mudryk played in Palmer. He drifted in along the edge of the penalty box, defenders close by, and magnificently stroked the ball in at the far post.

YES!

We went doo-fucking-lally.

He must have loved that, an ex-City player scoring at the Stretford End.

There was a song for Palmer.

“He moves it from the left to right. Cole Palmer is dynamite.”

This was followed by a loud “Carefree” that rung out from Sections 230 to 233. We had been pretty quiet as the half developed but here was a moment to enjoy.

The inevitable “just like London your city is blue.”

At half-time, I bumped into a few faces in the concourse.

“Not much quality but there’s a lot going on.”

I briefly met up with Johnny Twelve from California, celebrating his fiftieth Chelsea game. His wife was alongside him in the away section. I spotted that hundreds of central seats in the lower tier of the Stretford End were empty at the start of the second-half. This is obviously where United had decided to locate many of their corporate guests, many of whom were taking their time to return to their seats.

The lower tier of the Stretty.

Good God.

This end was the beating heart of Old Trafford when I was younger, when I first visited the stadium in 1986, and throughout the next few decades. I can’t imagine what the United faithful think about this.

Modern football, eh?

Mauricio Pochettino replaced the keen but exposed Cucarella with Reece James. The second-half began and we wondered what on Earth would happen next.

Chances were not so frequent as in the first-half.

Luke Shaw, at left-back, and defending near us, was the object of some abuse from Gary.

“The size of your shorts, Shaw.”

“Oi, Shaw. Billy Smart wants his tent back.”

A corner from down below us from Mudryk was flicked on by James and Jackson’s header at the far post really should have hit the target. A strong run from Mudryk then took him into the danger area but his shot was deflected for a corner. At the other end, Garnacho cut inside and his shot on goal reminded me so much of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s late equaliser against us in the autumn of 1997. Thankfully, this effort continued to rise over the bar.

Alas, from virtually the same place in the penalty box, Garnacho sent a teasing cross over to the far post and Teddy Sheringham, Eric Cantona, Andy Cole, Denis Law, Lou Macari, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Wayne Rooney, Gary Pallister, Billy Meredith and Bobby Charlton were among those lining up to head home. Scott McTominay got the touch.

2-1. Bollocks.

Two goals for McTominay. Bollocks.

There was a sniff of VAR cancelling the goal – again, I have no idea what for – but the goal stood. What with late kick-off times and VAR replays for those watching elsewhere, football is a TV game now. As if anyone was in any doubt.

There were twenty minutes’ left. The mood in the away end deteriorated. Rather than improve things with stability, James was having a ‘mare. In fact, the whole bloody team were awful.

Garnacho, with an instinctive angled shot, wide.

Fackinell.

In the first-half there had been rare breaks. In the second-half there had been virtually nothing. Armando Broja replaced Mudryk on seventy-seven minutes, and I wondered why Jackson will still playing. He had been, perhaps, the poorest of the bunch all night long.

Reece James blazed over from an angle.

Ridiculously, we were only losing 2-1 and we were one goal away from the most improbable point. In the last few minutes, a deep cross from James found the leap from Broja at the far post. He hit the frame of the goal.

Oh God.

The final straw for me took place in added time, with us showing no urgency at all at a throw-in, and no players looking like they were too bothered about anything.

No movement. No desire. No talking. No gesticulating. No fervour.

No hope.

The final whistle was blown and I headed for the exits. I couldn’t face clapping the players, but I heard the boos from among our fans. I just glowered.

We walked, as quickly as we could, back to the car. I overheard a few conversations from the home fans. They were pragmatic, but generally subdued, far from euphoric.

“Scott McTominay. He’s our top scorer now.”

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yeah, Scott bloody McTominay.

We walked past the chippies. The smell of vinegar cut through the air again. Along the Chester Road, the familiar walk, the familiar feeling.

We were back on the M6 at 11pm and, after stopping at Keele Services and Strensham Services, I made good time heading south. PD ran through the league positions and – yes – all of the teams above us are undoubtedly better than us. We seem destined to finish in tenth place this season. I joked that the best that we can hope for in May is to finish top of the West London League, ahead of Brentford and Fulham.

Everton on Sunday will be a struggle and I can hear the words already.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

It is becoming our mantra this season.

I eventually made it home at 2.50am.

There is no punchline.

TEAMS

CORNER

STAND

YELLOW

STEPS

THEM

ALONE

OUTSIDE

> dedicated to the loyal three thousand

Tales From A Ball Of Confusion

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 3 December 2023.

There was a black and white photograph of Terry Venables on the front of the match programme. The news of his sad passing, at the age of eighty, came through while we were sat at a café in Gateshead on the day after the match at Newcastle. He had actually died on the day of the game. Although he had played for three other London teams, and managed them all, he was always fondly remembered at Chelsea, a club that he never really wanted to leave. Later that Sunday, in the pub that had become our local for the weekend, we raised our glasses in memory of one of the brightest lights of that ‘sixties Chelsea team, and one of the most innovative coaches of the past few decades.

I never saw Terry Venables play. In fact, he was the manager of the opposing team in games that I saw a surprisingly few times. But he always seemed to me to be a genuine football man. The tales of him taking on Tommy Docherty with ideas of football tactics are legendary, and undoubtedly the reason why he was eventually moved on from Chelsea. There was only ever going to be one winner there. He joined the hated Tottenham, then QPR, then Crystal Palace. He was cherry-picked by Barcelona and won La Liga in his first season at Camp Nou. Alongside him as his number two was Alan Harris, brother of Ron. I always remember that I did a tour of the towering Barcelona stadium with two college mates in September 1987 on the very day that “El Tel” got the elbow, sacked after just over three seasons at one of the World’s largest clubs. As we left the stadium, I remember a gaggle of folk assembling outside the main stand and, at the time, I did not know why. The next day, we found out.

Later, there was Tottenham and a few famous battles with Chelsea. With England there were the highs – I was at the Holland and Spain games of Euro ’96 – and lows of being national team manager.

Terry Venables was an English football legend who lived life to the full – a singer and novelist too – and touched the lives of many. I often wonder how Chelsea’s story would have panned out if he had stayed in 1966.

Rest In Peace.

I was inside at about 1.30pm ahead of the 2pm kick-off, and I found myself chatting to my mate Daryl. Neither of us were too optimistic about the outcome of the upcoming match with Brighton.

“I’ll be happy with a draw mate.”

After the second-half capitulation at Newcastle, it felt that the twin games against Tottenham and City were a blip and that our state of health was again being questioned.

It had been a decent pre-match and the tight confines of “The Eight Bells” had been livened by the appearance of our friends Linda and Deano, calling in before their three-month adventure in Thailand, and also my Brighton mate Mac and his four pals, plus Chad, Danny and Josh from Minnesota.

Unlike the coldness of the day before, the weather was mild. The Chelsea team was announced and I took a look at it.

In goal, Robert Sanchez. A back four – without the suspended Reece James and Marc Cucarella – of Axel Disasi, Thiago Silva, Benoit Badiashile and Levi Colwill. In midfield, Moises Caicedo, Enzo Fernandez and Conor Gallagher. Out wide were Raheem Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk. In the middle, Nicolas Jackson.

No Cole Palmer.

Three former Brighton players; Sanchez, Colwill, Caicedo.

I immediately turned to Alan and admitted that I – probably for no logical reason – disliked tall full-backs.

“Only Ivanovic was any good…”

Why is that? I do prefer full-backs to be more compact, nippier, think Ashley Cole, Graeme Le Saux, Cesar Azpilicueta.

Our back four was made up of centre-backs and with Brighton likely to be quick and agile, I feared the worst. At least there was no Kaoru Mitoma in the starting line-up.

There were a few moments of applause in memory of Terry Venables before the game began.

After showing up in a vivid orange away kit for the League Cup game at the end of September, this time the Brighton kit man chose green and black striped shirts. It didn’t look right. If you were playing for your school and an opposing school showed up in green and black stripes, you would fancy your chances.

“Looks like a rugby-playing school this, lads. Who wears green and black? Into them!”

Well, despite all this, Brighton began brighter and I wondered if even a draw might be a tad optimistic. But we dug in, became a little more aggressive and won some battles. Conor Gallagher carried out his usual corner routine of holding the ball up above his head for a moment, before placing it in the quadrant.

“That’s code for another shit corner…”

One or two of these missed their intended targets.

A ball was played through to Nicolas Jackson who ran on but soon ran out of steam. I would soon lament that he had neither the pace, strength nor nous to be effective.

Lo and behold, on seventeen minutes, another Gallagher corner from out on our right beat the first man and Benoit Badiashile did ever so well to keep the ball alive and hook it back into the six-yard box. Enzo Fernandez rose to head home, and then celebrated wildly down in Parkyville.

GET IN.

Jackson then surprised everyone with an excellent dribble into the box and to the by-line before prodding it goal wards but the Brighton ‘keeper Jason Steele saved. The rebound was headed well wide by Enzo.

This was a good little spell for us and a cross from Sterling was hit into the danger area but went off for a corner. Gallagher’s delivery again caused Brighton problems. Jackson headed back for Levi Colwill to head towards goal. In the follow up, a shot from Axel Disasi was thumped against the side netting. We groaned. But within a heartbeat the initial header from Colwill was signalled as having crossed the line. There was only four minutes between the two goals.

2-0, oh my bloody goodness.

The game then meandered for a while. Despite us being 2-0 up, the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was truly dreadful. The away fans – any away fans – can usually be relied to stir things up a little, but the Brighton fans were as quiet as us.

Pah.

There was defensive hari-kari in our six-yard box, and – really Mister Pochettino – we need words, I already had a few heart attacks back in 2020. Please stop all that buggering about please.

Simon Adingra seemed to be giving Axel Disasi a bit of a runaround.

Mykhailo Mudryk spun on a sixpence and accelerated away but his shot just missed the target. His effort was warmly applauded. Bit of an enigma, that kid, eh? We all wish him well though.

It wasn’t great, despite the 2-0 score line.

PD blurted out “poor” just as I was thinking it.

It was deathly quiet.

Sadly, just before half-time, Facundo Buonanotte was on the end of an uncontested move and sent a fine curling shot between defenders and past Robert Sanchez to narrow the margin.

Bollocks.

Raheem Sterling danced into the Brighton box but then fell over himself.

Another rapid break from Mydruk down the left showed him at his best; electric pace, a dangerous cross. Sadly, this resulted in a quite brilliant reflex save from Steele as a Brighton defender deflected the cross goal wards.

The away fans had found their voices.

“Albion, Albion…Albion, Albion.”

Then, a very clumsy – and silly – challenge by the previously-booked Gallagher on our former player Billy Gilmour resulted in a second yellow and marching orders.

The Brighton lot were happy.

“Cheerio, Palace scum.”

This was the second red for a captain in consecutive games.

Fackinell.

It had been a Curate’s Egg of a first-half. There had been periods of good play but areas of concern too. I spoke with Oxford Frank about our failings during the first period. Despite the two goals, much of it was pedestrian. I recounted the game I attended on Saturday, a come-from-behind win by Frome Town at home to lowly Exmouth Town, and soon realised that I was far more excited as I found myself describing that game than dwelling on the match taking place below us. A special mention for my mate Josh – one of the Minnesota triplets – who travelled down to Somerset specially to see Frome play. The win, in front of a decent 376, left Frome in third place but with plenty of games in hand.

As I returned to my seat, Clive and Alan were in discussion about our second teams; Clive with Hereford, Alan with Bromley, me with Frome Town.

“If your two teams played each other, who would you want to win?”

And it is a great question.

I was asked this same question years ago, maybe before my love for Frome Town reached its full blossoming, and I replied “Chelsea, of course…”

Now, it’s a little more blurred.

But it’s still Chelsea.

Say, though, Frome Town defeat Torquay United in the FA Trophy next Saturday and are then drawn away to Oldham Athletic on the same day that Chelsea at home to Fulham on Saturday 13 January. What to do? What to do? Thinking about that could ruin my Christmas.

The second-half began.

After five minutes of play, the Stamford Bridge crowd eventually took the bull by the horns and got involved with the usual strains of “Amazing Grace” being used :

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

You know how it goes.

I joined in. But I then – gulp – realised that this was my first vocal involvement of the entire bloody game. Oh Christ. Is this what I have become? My 1993 self would have been distraught to see this. Bloody good time travel is not yet with us.

We were down to ten men, of course, but it didn’t really show.

Roberto De Zerbi made four substitutions on the hour, including James Milner, a player I have loathed for ages now.

Alan had just been talking to Clive about playing Mudryk down the middle – not always, just on occasion, to mix things a little – when we broke at pace.

A Brighton corner was claimed by Sanchez. A roll out to Sterling. To Jackson. To Mudryk. In on goal. Milner racing back.

I took a photograph.

Mudryk’s legs crumpled.

Did I immediately think it was a penalty? I hoped so.

Play continued. The crowd was roaring. I studied the image I had taken. I had my own little review. It looked like he had been caught.

VAR was called into action.

The nerds at Stockley Park were not sure.

Back it went to the referee Craif Pawson.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

Enzo.

Goal.

A roar from me.

A roar from everyone.

A slide into the corner down below us.

Snap.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Objectively speaking, my thoughts are that if the team of VAR “experts” can’t decide, then it doesn’t go back to the referee on the side of the pitch. The initial decision stands. I know that it would have meant that we would not have won that penalty, but VAR is killing our game.

The chants in support of the team grew louder.

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

We played well in the remainder. Pochettino made further substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

An extra man at the back now? I thought so,

Armando Broja for Mudryk.

We were treated to a punt up field from Sanchez for Broja and I approved. A little variation in our attacking play always makes the opponents uneasy.

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

That man Mitoma looked lively. Sanchez stretched low to turn away a long shot from Pascal Gross.

Ten minutes of extra time were signalled.

A corner from their left, in front of their fans, was whipped in and Joao Pedro lept well to glance the ball in; near post to far post.

Oh God.

The rain was lashing down now.

The minutes ticked by.

I kept glancing at Alan’s ‘phone; he always puts the timer on at ninety minutes.

6 minutes.

8 minutes.

Another save down low from Sanchez.

10 minutes.

A cross from Adingra was slashed in.

I saw nothing, nothing odd, nothing untoward. Imagine my shock when it became apparent that a penalty had been awarded.

What? Why? Who? Where? How?

Those of us in the ground were baffled, but obviously crestfallen. There was a big old kerfuffle in the penalty box. Confusion reigned.

VAR.

Another delay.

The referee went back to the TV screen.

Another delay.

I was fearing the worst.

The referee drew a rectangle with his hands like some stupid game of charades.

I thought it was a penalty that he had signalled.

So did the Brighton fans who roared.

My heart sank.

But then a roar from the home fans.

What?

No penalty.

What the fuck has happened to our game?

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Posted on November 30, 2023 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

Where does the back story begin for this game? How about October 1973? Let me explain.

No matter what this season brings, no matter how successful, how disappointing, or even how uneventful this campaign turns out to be, it will always be an important one for me. For this particular Chelsea devotee, all eyes are on March 2024 as it will mark the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game.

My first one was a home game with Newcastle United on Saturday 16 March 1974, and if the current fixture list remains unchanged, I will be celebrating this major milestone with an away trip to Arsenal on Saturday 16 March 2024. It could have been so much better though. In this season’s fixtures, Chelsea host the Geordies just a week before this date on Saturday 9 March. Damn the FA and damn their fixture lists.

So – to set the scene perhaps, here’s a little mention of 1973/74 and the reverse fixture of my first game. On Saturday 20 October 1973, Chelsea travelled to Tyneside in a Football League Division One encounter but unfortunately lost 2-0. The feared striker Malcolm Macdonald scored a brace in front of 32,154.

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

John Phillips, John Hollins, Eddie McCreadie, Steve Kember, David Webb, Ron Harris, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman, Chris Garland.

It pains me to see the names Hudson and Osgood listed as I sadly never saw them play for Chelsea. I never saw Eddie McCreadie either.

Fifty years later, another trip to St. James’ Park had been planned for a while. This was another game involving an overnight stay – or rather three of them – although Parky was forced to miss out due to a hospital appointment. On the Friday, I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 8am and began the long drive north. Luckily, it was a fine and sunny day and the drive was a joy. We had booked some digs in Felling, Gateshead, and I was parked outside the house at 2.15pm.

Over the past few years, the area has become familiar to me. On a trip to see Chelsea play at Newcastle in January 2020, I met a local lass, and I have been visiting her a little since then. This trip to the Newcastle area would be my fifth visit of the year. I celebrated my last two birthdays with Julie in the city of Durham and there have been a few nights out in The Toon and the surrounding area.

However, back in July, I wanted to visit a location – alone – that I think about every time that I see a game in Newcastle.

On 11 June 1957, Hughie Gallacher, the former Newcastle United and Chelsea striker, walked in front of an express train at Low Fell, in Gateshead, and was instantly killed. He was just fifty-four years of age. After a phenomenal career, in which he scored 24 goals in just 20 games for Scotland, he returned to the North-East – his last games were for Gateshead – but found life outside of football to be very difficult. I have always been fascinated by Gallacher and I bought “The Hughie Gallacher Story” by local journalist Paul Joannou a few years back. What lead to his suicide? In a fit of rage, he had thrown an ashtray at his son Mattie, drawing blood, and had been denied access to him. This haunted Gallacher and for many weeks he could be seen pacing the streets of Low Fell in a daze.

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

It took me a while to find the location of where the incident took place on the main London to Edinburgh line. I drove in and around Low Fell for a while, imagining Gallacher walking those same streets almost seventy years earlier. I stopped near the railway and parked close to a bridge. I took a few photographs. On my very first visit to Newcastle in March 1984 – ah, another anniversary of sorts – I would have travelled on this very same piece of railway on a Chelsea Special, without knowing the sad story enacted here.

What I found amazing was that St. James’ Park, at the top of the hill in Newcastle, was clearly visible from Low Fell. And, if I let my imagination work away, I wondered if the St. James’ Park floodlights would have been visible as Hughie Gallacher climbed up on to the railway track on that fateful day in June 1957.

Hughie Gallacher was idolised at Newcastle United. The club’s record gate of 68,386 marked the return of the diminutive striker to St. James’ Park after his transfer to Chelsea. On Wednesday 3 September 1930, that huge crowd saw the local team defeat Chelsea 1-0.

In July this year, I had a quiet moment of remembrance in honour of the one Chelsea player from our distant past that I wish I had seen play.

On the Friday night in Newcastle, after a little session at a warm and welcoming pub in Felling – waiting for our mate Rich to arrive by train from Edinburgh – we dotted around the crazy city centre, meeting up with a few usual suspects, before finally getting back to our digs at around 2.30am.

We awoke late, and tired rather than hungover, before catching a cab into town. Our digs were just a few hundred yards from the Gateshead Stadium, home to the current Gateshead team. We breakfasted at The Quayside pub, where we met up with Steve and the Two Bobs, plus a few pals from Minneapolis, over for a week of Chelsea games.

This was to be, of course, our first game since the hated international break. I spent my “free” weekend watching Frome Town play Worthing in the FA Trophy. In another stupendous match at Badgers’ Hill, Frome drew 2-2, and won 4-3 on penalties to advance. Later that evening, PD, Glenn, Parky and I watched From The Jam in the town centre. It was a very special day. On the Monday, we drew Torquay United in the next round, easily Frome’s most prestigious game in my living memory. I can’t wait to attend that match, luckily taking place on the Saturday before our visit to Everton on the Sunday.

Although modern football continues to bewilder and sadden me in equal measure, I still find the act of attending games with good friends so addictive.

You might have noticed.

There was just time for a solitary drink in the Crown Posada, deep under the bridges on the quayside at the bottom of the hill. This lovely old pub gets a visit from me every time I return. As we were supping our lagers, Led Zeppelin IV was being aired on the old-fashioned turntable on the bar.

“Stairway To Heaven” was played and it felt really incongruous. Not a football song. Not a football moment.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

We caught a cab to the stadium at about 2.15pm. The cabbie, from Morocco, claimed he was a Chelsea fan, but was able to reel off a few of the former players that he had met in London in the Gullit and Vialli years. And there was me thinking that it was just a ploy to get a big tip.

The stadium is so close to the city centre. I love it.

Never mind stairways to heaven, we just wanted to get our arses in the lift to the top tier. Once there, there was the usual meet and greet with a few familiar faces in the bar areas. As we walked into the top tier with ten minutes to go the kick-off – perfect timing – the pounding “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones provided a fine accompaniment.

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

This took me back to 1974. I can well remember my father teaching me the words to this well-known Geordie song, no doubt during the time leading up to that very first game. It would have been further engrained in my memory bank by the time Newcastle United played in the 1974 FA Cup Final two months later.

“Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

I shook hands with Alan and Gal. No John on this occasion. We were in the third row, just wide of the goal.

The familiar view, more familiar for me now. This was my fifteenth visit to this stadium and I looked south to the high land of Gateshead, Felling to the left, with Low Fell just about visible between the towering roofs of the Gallowgate and the Milburn Stand – no, not the railway line – and a church spire right at the top of the hill. I have had some good times here. Julie and I are sadly not an item anymore, but a thought about her too. With that, the PA boomed with “Going Home : Theme Of The Local Hero” – and I turned to Paul and said –

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

A massive flag crowd-surfed in the lower tier below me as the two teams appeared.

Back in March 1974, the visitors to Stamford Bridge memorably wore hooped socks. They have chosen white ones this season, so we were forced into wearing blue ones.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

Time to think about the game. I had previously mentioned that after four goals against Tottenham and City, were we in line for four more against the Geordies? I was of course joking. This would be a tough one. We agreed that a draw would be fine. But – a big but – a win would be seismic.

The game began.

They attacked us, the old Leazes End. We attacked the Gallowgate.

It was a busy, lively first five minutes. I was keen to find positive signs to assuage any fears of a poor performance. I continue to live in hope. There was a shot from Conor Gallagher – wide, no Hughie incarnate – and we traded a few punches with the home team. Every time the recalled Benoit Badiashile touched the ball, his song cascaded down the terraces from behind me.

“In a Lamborghini…”

It was a decent start, but on thirteen minutes a ball was threaded through for a Newcastle United player to tap home. In my mind, the scorer was offside. I expected the lino’s flag to be raised. I waited in vain. There was no flag, no VAR decision. We were 1-0 down. The goal scorer was Alexander Isak. It was, I believe, their first effort of the game. The home crowd had been pretty quiet but now they found their voices.

We tried to find spaces and Raheem Sterling was particularly busy. After one advance down the left, he was fouled just outside the “D” by Kieran Trippier. I settled my nerves to time a photograph as he shot. The ball dipped over the wall and the Toon ‘keeper Nick Pope did not move. The ball nestled into the goal.

A guttural “YES” from me and a clench of both fists. The scorer ran away to a corner, and team mates joined in. He was booed for the rest of the first-half.

It developed into a decent half. I disliked the way that Cucarella was often exposed with a wide man often in space. But Cucarella seemed to be trying his best, full of endeavour, I could not fault that. The man from Brighton, though, never ever seems to make a regular bog-standard block tackle. The bloke is forever scurrying after people.

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

I caught a terrible miss from Joelinton at the far post on film. The goal was gaping. He really should have done better.

The best move of the match followed, the ball pushed one way and then the other, with Reece James eventually setting up Enzo who sadly shot too close to goal and Pope tipped it over. Later, a terribly weak effort from Gallagher with his left foot was scuffed past the post. I could see Hughie Gallacher pointing at the goal and shouting in rage.

Just before the break, a Trippier free-kick touched the top of the bar.

It had been a decent enough half.

The night began to fall during the break. And as the second-half began, the temperature fell too. There are safe-standing barriers throughout the away section in the Leazes now, but the trick on an afternoon like this was to avoid touching the exposed metal. Hands were stuffed deep inside pockets. My camera was used sparingly.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. It sadly dawned on me that we were not in this now. The second-half was being punctuated by free-kicks and there was little flow. What football that there was came from the home team despite very little backing from the home support.

On the hour, a cross from James Gordon – a very fine cross, it has to be said – was met by a free-header from Jamaal Lascelles, who firmly planted the ball wide of Robert Sanchez.

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

“E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

Not a minute later, Thiago Silva slipped, Joelinton pick-pocketed him, and easily struck the ball past Sanchez.

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

The noise was deafening. I wondered what the visitors from Minneapolis thought of the noise, the city, the whole buzz.

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

While I found myself looking back at the faces of a few familiar supporters in the rows alongside me and behind me, I missed the foul by James that resulted in a second yellow.

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

Mudryk had a couple of runs from deep but typically ran out of gas and ideas.

On eighty-three minutes, with the spritely Gordon running at full pelt, I uttered the immortal line.

“Don’t let him come inside.”

At that exact moment, he came inside. His low shot was perfectly placed beyond the despairing dive of Sanchez. There’s that fourth goal.

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

The game ended. It was cold now. A few handshakes. A few nods. Not good Chelsea. Not good at all.

“Terrible second-half.”

This was the worst Chelsea defeat that I had ever seen at St. James Park. The worst in our history was a 5-0 reverse in October 1974. Ah, back to 1974 again. Perhaps I had best stop talking about it. We made our way down to street level. There had been no stairway to heaven on this visit to Tyneside. Not for us anyway. We walked down Barrack Road outside the glass and steel of the Milburn Stand, then stopped by for a cheeseburger with onions at a stand outside the Gallowgate.

We walked all of the way down, through the Bigg Market – a few locals wished us well, “have a good night lads” – finally stopping at a familiar chip shop right at the bottom of the hill.

While The Toon was in full flow, we caught a cab back to Felling.

But there will be another time in Newcastle. Another visit. It’s a favourite city.

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.

Tales From One To Remember

Posted on November 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 November 2023.

After the euphoria and shock of our 4-1 victory at Tottenham Hotspur on Monday, we were now presented with another equally tough opponent. The league fixture list had provided us with a home game against the current English and European Champions Manchester City. During the first few miles of our drive up to London, PD set the scene.

“I think Man City today will be more of a test to see where we are.”

But I replied.

“Well, to be fair, we said that about Tottenham.”

However, Manchester City are the current benchmark for English football and they have been for a few years now. We held that mantle, relatively briefly in retrospect, in 2004/5 and 2005/6 and now find ourselves at a position in the pecking order not too dissimilar to around 2001/2 and 2002/3. We are seemingly adrift of the main bunch of contenders, chipping away at whoever we come up against, and so be it.

The day before the City game at Stamford Bridge, I attended my sixteenth Frome Town game of the season, an easy 3-0 home win against the current league leaders Willand Rovers in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 436. It pushed my home town team into second place in the table. On the Sunday came my fifteenth Chelsea game of the season.

It rained all of the way up to London, but thankfully by the time I had parked up on Bramber Road and walked down the North End Road to pop into “Café Ole” for a bite to eat, the rain had completely abated. We had set off early on this Remembrance Sunday. Parky had wanted to attend the service, or at least the two-minute silence, at All Saints in Fulham, a stone’s throw from “The Eight Bells” and where we attended the hundredth anniversary of the cessation of World War One before the Everton game on 11 November 2018.

As I ploughed into a full English, instrumental versions of songs by James Blunt and Glenn Medeiros provided a backdrop that I didn’t really appreciate; I wanted something a little more “football” and something to stir me a little, something with a bit more bite. As the anaemic muzak continued. I flicked through bits and bobs on my ‘phone and soon realised that the day marked the fortieth anniversary of one my favourite-ever Chelsea games.

All those years ago – Saturday 12 November 1983 – Chelsea played host to Newcastle United in the Second Division. I reviewed season 1983/84 in my match reports of season 2008/9, but this game is so important to me – and to others – that I think it is worth sharing again.

“I was unemployed throughout the season…but had been to the home games against Derby in August and Cardiff in October. The biggest game of the season was to be against Arthur Cox’s Newcastle United. They were the favourites for promotion and boasted Keegan, Beardsley, McDermott and Waddle; a good team. I had travelled up alone for the first two games, but had arranged to travel up by train with Glenn, from Frome, for the first time for the Geordies’ game. We would have reached Chelsea at about 10.30am and I distinctly remember having a cuppa in the old “Stamford Bridge Restaurant” with him. Two Geordies were sitting with us.

“Keegan will score a hat-trick today, like.”

I remember we got inside the ground when the gates opened at 1.30pm. Even to this day, I can remember peering out on a misty Stamford Bridge, Eurythmics playing on the pre-match show, in amazement how many people were “in early.”

By 2pm, The Shed was getting very full. Back in those days, we were used to average gates of around 12,000 in the Second Division. In April 1982, we infamously only drew 6,009 for a league game. In the First Division, in 1983-84, even champions-to-be Liverpool only drew 32,000. Football was at a bit of a low ebb. The recession was biting. After narrowly avoiding relegation to Division Three in May, however, Chelsea were rejuvenated in the first few months of 1983-84 and the Chelsea support was rallying around the team. We drew 30,628 for the Newcastle game in November 1983…a monster gate, when the average Division Two gate was around 11,000. We watched from The Whitewall.

Chelsea slaughtered Newcastle 4-0 and I fondly look back on that game as one of my favourite games ever. We absolutely dominated. Mention this game to anyone who was there, though, and they will say two words.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, with us leading 1-0, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle attack in the Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. I would later read a report from “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Titcher that Pat had nut-megged Keegan ( but I can’t confirm this ) and then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must’ve left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around twenty seconds, maybe more…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted the ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, but some tell that Kerry headed it over.

Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – still my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.”

Despite our successes over the past twenty-five years, 1983/4 will never be surpassed as my favourite ever season.

I had a little wander up to Fulham Broadway. There were chats with Chidge and Marco, while DJ shoved a copy of “CFCUK” in my hand. Marco and I reminisced about that game forty years ago and I retold the story of the Geordies in the café; we were stood in 2023 right opposite to where that self-same café stood in 1983.

I took a few “scene-setter” photos then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge.

I stepped foot inside “The Eight Bells” at 12.30pm. PD had been there since 11am. Not bad for a 4.30pm kick-off. The pub was full of like-minded souls; virtually all chaps in our forties, fifties and sixties, but with a few young’uns too, and I noted some gents with ties, jackets and medals – including Parky – who had called in after the church service. The music here was far better than in the café. Soon into my three hours in the pub, we were treated to “Alternative Ulster” by Stiff little Fingers and tons more tracks from my – and our – youth followed. I flicked through “CFCUK” and enjoyed reading articles by Marco, Chidge and Tim Rolls. I loved Tim’s phrase “amortisation groupies” in a piece about the club’s financial outlay finding approval from the kind of people that seem to suddenly know everything. It’s always a good read.

The rain held off on the way to the stadium, the air still misty and so similar to the pre-match feel of the game forty years previous.

We were inside early, at about 4pm I suppose. I have recently bought a new ‘phone and I had to re-enter details to enable me to gain access to the stadium’s free Wi-Fi. It disturbed me a little to see that in the drop-down menu of reasons for my visit, which I had to tick, “football” was not listed. After huffing and puffing for a few seconds, I reluctantly selected “entertainment and events.”

Good grief.

As I looked around, a chap wearing a River Plate jersey and a Chelsea scarf caught my eye. I went up to have a word with him. Martin was from Buenos Aires, a River season ticket holder, and on his honeymoon; his wife had a ticket in The Shed, they were unable to get two together. We traded barbs and laughs about Boca and River. I showed him photos of my trip to his home city in 2020. He was here, plainly, to see Enzo Fernandez. Where I favour the blue of Boca, he tends to favour teams in red – “Arsenal” – but here he was wearing a blue Chelsea scarf and that was good enough for me. This was his first-ever game in England. The players were warming up down below me and he shouted out “Enzo!” a few times, but the music was blasting and there was no chance that he could be heard.

The rain had held off, and we prepared ourselves for the unique way that our club is able to call on the services of the Chelsea Pensioners as we remembered the fallen. I surely can’t remember two minutes of silence at games in November forty years ago; this seems a relatively new development.

The “Last Post” followed a seemingly brief moment of silence. As at the Frome Town game the day before, the bugler played every note to perfection.

After, a roar.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Us?

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

This was almost the same team that won at Tottenham, albeit with a little tinkering at the back. Manchester City eschewed the chance to wear one of their dayglow kit alternatives and went with their sky blue home kit.

The game began.

It was a very decent start indeed with Chelsea aggressively involved all over the pitch. There was a shot from Reece James within the very first minute. Nicolas Jackson, derided in some quarters of late, was sniffing at every opportunity to gain a yard, to edge ahead of his man, to create a chance. It was noisy, reassuringly so.

“These late kick-offs are great. Gives everyone the chance to have a few more scoops in the pub.”

There was, however, an odd chant from the three thousand City fans in The Shed.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

It immediately confused the rest of the 40,000 crowd since not only have we won it, we have won it twice, the last time against City – as if anyone needs reminding.

Were City “in” on a private joke? Surely this was the explanation. I wondered if it was akin to Manchester United fans singing “Who the fuck are Man United?” and left it at that.

Chelsea, the Matthew Harding, responded with –

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

We had the upper hand in the first quarter, moving the ball quickly, looking sharp, playing as a unit. Cole Palmer and then Conor Gallagher had attempts at Ederson’s goal. Whisper it quietly; we were on top.

Then, on twenty-five minutes – the pace relentless – there was a clash of heads between James and Disasi down below me and I was focussed on the injury prone James. Almost as an afterthought, I looked over to see a cross just miss the far post and Thiago Silva clear, while more bodies fell to the floor in the immediate area. I re-focussed on the two defenders on the ground. After a few moments, the rumour went around that the referee had signalled a penalty.

Who? What? Where? When? How?

As always, the punters within the stadium were the last to know what was going on. After a wait, Erling Haaland – maybe two touches until now – swept the ball in. Nobody expected him to miss. Despite our fine play, we were losing.

Chelsea 0 Manchester City 1.

Soon after, a free-kick, and James curled one goal wards but Ederson flicked it over.

I said to Clive “Zola would have scored.”

From the corner that followed, Gallagher sent in a delivery with pace. Thiago Silva was unmarked as he edged forward to meet it and supply the deftest of touches, his glancing header nestling in the bottom far corner. We erupted and I was boiling over as I photoghraphed his slide past Parky and the resulting celebrations in the corner. We love our corner celebrations at Chelsea, eh?

Royal Blue 1 Sky Blue 1.

No more than five minutes later, Enzo – who was getting stuck in defensively – won the ball and pushed the ball to Palmer who then found the advancing James. His low cross was bundled in from close range by Sterling. The place erupted again. We were ahead.

Munich & Porto 2 Istanbul 1.

GET IN!

Chelsea shots peppered the City goal, but that man Haaland had the goal at his mercy, only to draw a quite magnificent save from Robert Sanchez down low. We all expected him to score. Phil Foden then curled one past a post. This was a super game.

Alas, we fell asleep at a corner, taken just below me. The ball was played back to an un-marked Bernardo Silva, their main play-maker thus far, and his first-time cross was headed home via the leap of Manuel Akanji. It seemed all Chelsea defenders were too busy marking other City players.

Thiago 2 Bernardo 2.

Oh boy.

It had been a relentless first-half.

At the break, the inhabitants of The Sleepy Hollow were upbeat and positive. This had been a fine game of football thus far. I did however say to a few friends :

“If somebody had said we would see four goals in this half, I would have been supremely worried.”

The second-half began and just after I took a wide-angle photo of a free-kick from out on our left, the ball was lost and City broke at pace, with Foden slipping in that man Haarland to convert from close range. He celebrated with the away fans. I felt sick.

Celery 2 Bananas 3.

City now dominated and I feared another goal. However, we clawed our way back into things and were absolutely buoyed on the hour by a scintillating shimmy into the box from Palmer, slaloming past close defenders, but with a shot that was stopped by Ederson, the Illustrated Man.

The applause rang out. It was, maybe, a condensed version of the run from Pat Nevin forty years ago.

Mauricio Pochettino made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

After a tentative performance at Tottenham on Monday, Reece was more gung-ho in this game, defending more rigorously and using his speed and strength to challenge his foes. Enzo had started well, but seemed to be tiring. The injection of the Ukrainian was just what we needed. Not long after, a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played into Moises Caicedo. He found Gallagher with a square pass, who let fly from outside the box. Ederson spilled the ball and two Chelsea players pounced. It was Jackson who stabbed the ball in.

The place erupted once again.

More photos, interspersed with me screeching and yelling. After his slide, I turned and punched the air. Fans all around me were losing it.

Sean Lock 3 Eddie Large 3.

The rain fell now, but the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was electric.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen.”

So loud.

“Flying high up in the sky, we’ll keep the blue flag flying high.”

I looked around to see Martin, the Argentinian, singing songs of praise to our beloved Brazilian.

“Ooh, Thiago Silva.”

His smile was wide; a great sight.

…inside my head : “Fuck Arsenal.”

There was a massive shout for handball – Kyle Walker, inside the box? – on seventy minutes but maybe that was an optical illusion visible only to a thousand or two in the Matthew Harding. To say I was bemused would be an understatement.

Jack Grealish had replaced Doku for City on the hour mark and now Mateo Kovacic replaced Julian Alvarez. I was amazed that there were a few boos, but these were rapidly outnumbered by a large burst of clapping and applause. He was well liked, most of the time, at Chelsea was our Croatian Man.

The game moved into its final minutes.

Malo Gusto, tearing in, slammed a curler high and wide of Ederson’s goal.

On eighty-six minutes, the ball came loose just outside our penalty box, Rodri slammed it towards goal and it took a huge deflection off Thiago Silva and left Sanchez stranded. My heart sank.

“Oh God. Not even a point.”

What a bitter pill.

Blue Flag 3 Blue Moon 4.

Armando Broja replaced Caicedo.

Palmer dropped back into midfield, but Pochettino was certainly going for it. This was such an enthralling game. Very few left early. A lengthy eight minutes of injury time was signalled.

“Come on Chels.”

We urged the players on. The noise was relentless. This was incredible stuff. Broja had looked a handful and with time running out, Sterling – a magnificent performance throughout – clipped the ball in to him. Ruben Dias made a rough challenge and it looked a penalty from the off. The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

There was, then, an unseemly kerfuffle as both teams crowded the referee and a player from each side was booked in the melee. The always confident Palmer took the ball. By now, I was feeling the pressure. But I am glad that my heart was showing no signs of palpitations nor was there tightness in my chest. I looked around. There was tension on the faces of many.

“Come on Cole. Come on my son.”

He advanced. I clicked. He scored. I yelled. I clicked some more.

What a fucking game of football.

Palmer & Sterling 4 Ake & Kovacic 4.

Not so long after, and with Les replacing Nicolas, the hated Taylor blew up. The game was over. I was exhausted, again. I was exhausted after Tottenham, I was exhausted after this to. Surprisingly, “Blue Is The Colour” was not played at the end. Instead, “Park Life” accompanied our joyful exit from the stands.

The memory of this game would surely live with us for a long time.

I stopped by the Peter Osgood statue to sort out tickets for upcoming games, and shook hands with a few mates who were just as exhausted as myself. Thankfully, the rain soon abated and I walked back to the car in the dry.

There have been a few 4-4 draws of late, eh?

2007/8 : Chelsea 4 Aston Villa 4

2007/8 : Tottenham 4 Chelsea 4

2008/9 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4

2019/20 : Chelsea 4 Ajax 4

And now the best of the lot on Remembrance Sunday 2023.

At last – at bloody last – it looks like our arid period of poor football has ended, though of course this is only two games in a week after months upon months of stultifying fare. But there were so many positives to take from this game.

My favourites?

Palmer – fantastic, the future.

Cucarella – another blinder.

Sterling – sensational, please keep it up.

Gallagher – tireless, relentless, a leader.

James – strong, resolute, back to his best.

A mention for the manager too. I like him. I hope he likes us. It’s a romance just waiting to blossom.

On the way back in the car, we were purring at our performance and we looked forward to a full fortnight of relaxation before the daddy of all away trips, Newcastle United.

“It’s good they will come at us because we struggle against teams who sit back.”

See you there.

Tales From Tottenham Away, Love It!

Posted on November 11, 2023 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 6 November 2023.

Not much happened in this game, eh?

Without further ado, let’s try and cobble together some sort of coherent description of a ridiculous night of football in North London, though I am not sure that I am going to be able to sufficiently contain it all in one piece. Maybe it will need several addendums, many edits, perhaps even a re-write.

Let’s go.

After three home games – a draw, a loss, a win – we were now back on the road. The game at Tottenham – funny how we always call them Tottenham, but Tottenham often call themselves Spurs – was filling me, and I am sure countless others, with dread. Unbeaten in the league thus far, they were carving out a decent start to the season with Ange Postecoglou in charge. Chelsea, in comparison, had been patchy at best. I had commented to several mates that we were in the middle of a phony war thus far; many of our players were out injured, many of the teams that we had been paired against were not of a very high standard. The last few weeks had felt a little phony, a little false.

Tottenham away though. This was a bloody test alright.

With our game with them being moved to a Monday, it allowed me to drive up to the Malvern Hills on the Saturday to follow my local team. On a wet, then misty, then sunny afternoon, Frome Town won 3-1 away at Malvern Town. It was deeply enjoyable. I wasn’t quite so confident about the visit to N17.

I set the alarm for 4.30am to enable me to work a flexi-shift of 6am to 2pm. I was subdued and quiet throughout Monday as I battled a few logistical problems. I tried not to think too much about the upcoming game. The time flew past and at just after 2pm I picked up PD and Parky in the pub car-park opposite my place of work and then shot around to collect Sir Les from his house. I then drove south to collect Salisbury Steve from his gaff a few minutes after 3pm.

We were on our way.

“Take a draw now.”

“Be happy with nil-nil.”

Steve supplied me with Jelly Babies to keep me alert and I ate up the miles. The traffic was light and we were parked up at Barons Court tube just after 5pm. We dipped into a local café for some drinks before heading east and then north.

Barons Court to Holborn to Liverpool Street to White Hart Lane.

Tottenham away – “love it!” – is a familiar journey.

I had worked out that this would be my twenty-fifth away game against Tottenham, though this includes a few at Wembley Stadium too. My overall record was pretty decent.

Won : 9

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

I know that during the long unbeaten stretch, I veered away from going to White Hart Lane, convinced that my appearance would put the glorious run to an end; I didn’t show up from 2001 to 2008 at all.

But I have had some superb times in this part of London and a few of them flitted through my mind. These days we always alight at the White Hart Lane over ground station, though for all of the first half a dozen visits, I always used to get off at Seven Sisters tube and then walk up the High Road to the old stadium.

For some reason, the game in August 1987 – only my second-ever visit – came to mind. I travelled up with Glenn by train from Frome. It seems odd now, but we shot over to Upton Park and had some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” and even had a drink in “The Queens” pub on Green Street. I think Glenn just fancied some authentic East End food before our trip into north London. We had begun the season with two wins and Chelsea descended on White Hart Lane in huge numbers and with high hopes.

I remember walking into a pub with Glenn – halfway up the High Road – and being, obviously, wary, but then relishing the joy of being among many Chelsea fans who were dropping in for pre-match refreshments en route. We had huge numbers there that day; I had bought a seat in the Park Lane after the home opener the previous weekend while Glenn nabbed one from a tout outside. Thousands filled the pens in front. There looked like severe crushing until the police moved the away support into a section under The Shelf. It felt magnificent to be part of such a huge away support. The gate was a massive – for the time – 37,079 and we must have had 8,000. I remember we played in white shorts. We lost 0-1, fucking Nico Claesen with a very late goal at the Paxton Road End. Ten days later, at Old Trafford, I can remember similar scenes; Chelsea travelling in huge numbers and our away support being shuffled along into one of the side pens of the United Road Paddock, with the United fans outraged as they had to move along into another pen.

“What the fook is going on?”

Incredible times. Chelsea away in the ‘eighties. You had to be there.

Our escapade across London had gone well. At Liverpool Street, the tribes were amassing; a few shouts from a Chelsea crowd behind us, a few shouts of “Yid Army” on the platform. We just missed a train but caught the next one. I sat with PD. Les was by himself. I saw Parky talking to a Tottenham chap. I knew he wouldn’t give the game away. Steve was chatting away too, but I wasn’t sure if that bloke was Tottenham or not.

There is always a frisson of tension for this game.

At about 6.30pm we reached White Hart Lane station. Out onto the High Road, the huge stadium loomed large. The atmosphere, unlike a previous visit, wasn’t too prickly. As we sloped north towards the almost hidden approach to the away section, I spotted two away supporters, both with Chelsea tops, both with Chelsea scarves.

I could not help but think one word.

“Tourists.”

We were inside pretty quickly. It was easy too, despite having to go through a metal detector. Knowing this would be the case, I left my SLR at home and instead took along a small pocket camera. I placed this under my phone and wallet to the side of the frame of the detector and the security guard didn’t clock it; we were in.

I knew that my ticket was, as in the previous three league visits this fine stadium, down low in row three and I knew that my pocket camera would not be able to take too many decent photos. To make up for it, I had decided to turn the camera on us, the fans, and as I walked through the away concourse I began to snap away.

There was a surprise reunion with Andy and Steve-O from California and also Chopper from New York. The away support was in good form, singing defiantly. I hoped the singing would continue inside.

Down in our section – 118, nearest the home support, next to the pretentiously named East Atrium – the troops were amassing. I continued to click my camera, the focus on mates not millionaires.

The kick-off approached.

Nerves? Yeah, just a bit.

The lights dimmed in the stadium, and there was an instruction on the TV screens.

“Lights On.”

With that, thousands of mobile ‘phone torches were hoisted above heads in the towering South Stand and elsewhere.

“What’s this? A fucking Barry Manilow concert?”

Good grief.

To continue the cringe-fest, I spotted a flag in the opposite corner.

“We’re Loving Big Ange Instead.”

Barry Manilow. Robbie Williams.

For Fuck Sake.

But then the mood changed.

I very much approved of the way that Tottenham Hotspur marked the upcoming Remembrance Day. As the two teams lined up on the centre circle, two Chelsea Pensioners in bright red (usually so incongruous at a Tottenham versus Chelsea game, but on this occasion just right) placed two poppy wreaths on the turf. Well done Tottenham for inviting the Chelsea Pensioners; top marks. I was sure that the PA announced that there would be a rendition of “The Last Post” and then a minute of silence, but after the last few notes of the haunting tune finished, the crowd roared.

Tottenham in all white – but looking slightly off-white to my eyes – and Chelsea in all blue.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Our seats were filled.

Standing behind me was Lee. I had not seen him for such a long time. He was there with his son Kayden. It was his boy’s first-ever away game. It was wonderful to see them both.

At 8pm, the game began.

I had, repeatedly, told others – not surprisingly – that we needed to keep them at bay in the first part of the game. Well, we could not have started more poorly. A Tottenham move down their left was then switched to their right and, horribly, I had a perfect view of what developed. The ball was played out via James Madison and then to Pape Matar Sarr to Dejan Kulusevski.

“Get closer, get closer.”

Sadly, Levi Colwill didn’t get closer and he allowed the Tottenham midfielder time to cut inside and shoot. His effort deflected off the defender and into the net.

Fucksake.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Only six minutes had gone.

Calvin sneaked into the row in front, standing alongside his father and uncle, and we shared some banter.

Chelsea were chasing shadows and other clichés in the opening part of the game and it wasn’t long before the home team pounced again. A flowing move down their left fed in Son Heung-Min who deftly flicked it low past Robert Sanchez.

Noise.

Oh fuck.

A quarter of an hour gone and we were 0-2 down.

But then, a quick glance to my right and I, and others, spotted the raised yellow flag of the linesman a few yards away.

Please. Please. Please.

I honestly cannot remember if the VAR check was long or short, but the decision was upheld and so the score stayed at 0-1.

Behind me, there was the gravelly and rasping voice of a Chelsea fan who was singing alone and pleading others to do so too. He was irritating all of those around us. I am pretty sure the same bloke in virtually the same seat was doing the same last season too.

“And he fucked off after an hour” said John, and we smiled.

To be honest, the Chelsea choir had begun well and there were outbreaks of support, but the home areas, completely full, were in the ascendency with their, um, three songs.

“Oh when the Spurs…”

“Glory Glory…”

“Yid Army…”

Yawn.

And then, imperceptibly, we slowly got into the game, especially with some progressive play down the wings. There had already been a half-chance for Nico Jackson, but as the half-progressed we had more of the ball.

I am not sure if I had a clear view of it, but the idiotically named Destiny Udogie went in recklessly on Raheem Sterling and VAR was called into action again; no red card, a yellow.

With a player from each side down, Caicedo exploited some space out on our left to find Sterling, who was increasingly involved. He ran through, and despite a couple of bobbles, lifted the ball into the net from an angle.

GET IN.

How we celebrated.

Alas, VAR was involved for the third time and judged that the ball had ricocheted back off a Tottenham defender and hit Sterling’s upper arm.

Bollocks.

However, it was half-way through the half and we had improved.

It is worth noting that I had no idea that Romero had carried out a petulant kick at Colwill during the build-up. I was probably too busy doing one of ninety-seven other things.

We dominated the play with home attacks rare.

The Chelsea support was roused.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On thirty-five minutes, a Chelsea move deep into their box and the ball was pin-balled around. It fell nicely to Moises Caicedo just outside the penalty area.

I uttered the immortal words :

“Hit it you fucker!”

Hit it, he did, and the ball flew into the bottom left corner of the goal.

Wild, and I mean wild, celebrations.

YES!

And then, and then, the awful realisation that there was a raised flag for offside over on the far side. It then became crazier. As crazy as it has ever been. The goal was cancelled, an offside somewhere, but then as we were getting our head around that, the TV screen signalled VAR for possible violent conduct and we stood bewildered and confused, and I suppose a little elated. I don’t know and I was there for fuck sake. It was mad, it was shite, it was all the things I knew that I would hate about video technology. After what seemed an age…five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes?…Christian Romero was sent off, not sure what for at the time, but a penalty was awarded to us too.

Oh boy.

The ever confident Cole Palmer struck the ball goal wards and it cannoned in off the right upright.

Chelsea 1 Tottenham 1.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

With Sterling dancing down the left wing, Chelsea continued to dominate the rest of the first-half. We had the ball in the net again, a break down the left, but Sterling had gone too soon, thus negating the eventual goal from Jackson due to an offside decision. Did that go to VAR? Not a clue.

By this stage, the little group of supporters in my immediate area were starting to chat away to each other; it felt like we were starting to initiate a self-help support group. There was chit-chat about our fortunes and misfortunes, smiles at the ludicrous nature of the match thus far, self-deprecating humour, hugs when goals were scored, glum faces when things went against us.

To my right, Parky, Gary, John, to my left a girl – voraciously swearing, I approved – with her boyfriend, in front Calvin and his father and his uncle, behind, Lee and his son, quietly taking it all in, then a smiley chap who I semi-recognised who was enthusiastically revelling in every second of the madness.

A ridiculous twelve extra minutes were added on to that first-half. It finished just before 9pm I guess. I felt exhausted. Phew.

I made my way out to the concourse – with an eye to more fan photos – and spoke to Noel from Brackley.

“I can’t watch that. We’re off.”

Noel is no fool. He is as level-headed as they come. I see him everywhere with his wife. Yet he was so disgusted by the farce of VAR that he had decided that enough was enough.

I was shocked, but maybe not. Just a few minutes before, another mate – Rob – had said that if we hadn’t scored that penalty after all those layered VAR decisions, he would have left too.

I hate VAR. Always have. Football is about passion and momentum. The ebb and flow of the game can be tantalising. It is a game that mustn’t be stopped in its tracks for the slightest misdemeanour. We might have gained something through VAR, but look what we have lost. VAR is killing football, the spectacle of football, and I fear that it might eventually turn me away from the professional game.

Nerds are taking over the game.

Fuck them.

A substitution at the break :

Marc Cucarella for Colwill.

The game re-started with Chelsea attacking our end. Both John and I commented that Reece James, now in full vision in front of us, seemed to be playing within himself. His fragile body continues to worry us all.

We had much of the ball in the first part of the second-half. On fifty-five minutes, Sterling broke away centrally, Chelsea three on two, but a terrible pass outside to Palmer was hit right at Udogie. The ball became free, but Udogie then hacked Sterling down. Others around me had remembered that Udogie had been booked earlier and it soon became obvious that he would get his marching orders.

Tottenham were down to nine men with over half-an-hour to go. The game then reached a strange stage. It seemed that a win was almost sure to happen, and of course nothing was further from the truth. We relaxed a little bit too much and slowed our tempo. Tottenham’s defensive line was so high that at times they could have been queuing up for tickets at Seven Sisters.

But we did create chances.

From a lofted cross, Jackson, from under the bar, headed at Pierre-Emil Hojbjerg.

A shot from our Reece; wide.

Balls out of midfield into space were lazy.

Jackson, one on one against Guglielmo Vicario, but another good chance missed. The ‘keeper did well. The away end sighed three thousand sighs.

I made a bold statement to John : “Jackson will score, don’t worry.”

Marc Cucarella ran onto a ball over the top of the Tottenham line but spurned the chance to either shoot or pass to Sterling to his right. The Tottenham goalie was turning into our nemesis. Couldn’t he fuck off down to Seven Sisters too?

On the hour, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Enzo.

On seventy-five minutes, with the Tottenham line still playing silly buggers, the ball was pushed forward for Sterling. I snapped his pass inside to Jackson, who – at last – slipped the ball easily past Vicario.

Now we exploded.

GET IN.

Such wild scenes in row three and throughout the away segment. Hugs with everyone.

YES.

But then. The inevitable VAR check. Was Sterling off?

We waited.

Goal.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

“Told you he would score, John.”

Calvin started to initiate a song.

“Spurs. Spurs are falling apart again.”

…mmm, that didn’t seem right using “Spurs.”

Malo Gusto for James.

Mudryk wasted virtually every chance that he was given…good grief, that boy can frustrate.

The drama continued. A Tottenham free-kick was lumped into the box. There was a knock on and a white-shirted body – Dier – thumped the ball in from beyond the far post.

I spotted another flag.

Offside.

Fackinell.

Then, Son shimmied into the box, and as he advanced I think we all expected the worst. He was forced a little wide but still managed to get a shot on target. The out-stretched dive of Sanchez saved the day.

“Fantastic save!”

I don’t think I noticed Les replace Raheem.

We continued to press on. There was no room for game management on this crazy night in North London. Conor Gallagher was set free and, just at the right moment, played the ball square to Jackson who finished with a fine finish.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 3.

Deep into injury-time / VAR time, we were bouncing. Good old Chelsea had done it again. We serenaded the home fans and how :

“Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go. Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go.”

With that, and as we continued to sing this infamous song, another long ball pierced the Tottenham defence, this time releasing two. Jackson was in no mood to pass to Mudryk, who had already flashed one high over the bar, and rounded the ‘keeper to score.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4.

Bloody hell.

I was up on my seat now, bouncing, as were others.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

I grasped Lee’s hand.

“So good to see you mate.”

To be fair, credit where credit is due, the home fans stayed until the end and resolutely got behind their team with their songs of support.

At the final whistle, after eight minutes extra, joy unbounded.

Quite bizarrely, only right at the end, did the name Mauricio Pochettino flicker inside my head. What a night for him, eh?

During the day, an occasional thought about us beating Tottenham had entered my head – “just imagine!” – but I soon dismissed it as lunacy. But, against all odds and further clichés, we had done it. Sure, it wasn’t a convincing performance but this is a team that is still evolving. This team needs to be given a little slack. It needs time to grow.

I would later discover on the internet that some fans had been scathing of our performance, which I found a little unnerving, and I wondered if I had got carried away with the emotion of it all. I even read that some fellow couldn’t bring himself to cheering our third and fourth goal as he was so livid with our performance.

Me? Oh, I can forgive Chelsea for winning 4-1 at Tottenham.

Sometimes, football isn’t pretty. Sometimes it frustrates. But sometimes you have to just wonder at the madness of it – and the joy of beating Tottenham. Again.

We were in no rush to leave. We knew that the streets would be mobbed for a while. We enjoyed the moment. This was my fourth visit to their new digs and my record was pretty decent.

Won : 3

Drew : 0

Lost : 1

That meant that my overall record at Tottenham Away – “Love It!” – now stood at :

Won : 10

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

The Tottenham PA played a few songs; I thought initially that it was a cynical ploy to drown us out, but whatever.

The first one up was the Postecoglou- remix of “Angels.”

The residual Chelsea support gave it a special ending :

“We’re loving Chelsea instead.”

The five of us met up outside and drifted away into the night. We ate up some junk food on the High Road, then turned left onto White Hart Lane to join the residual queue at the train station. We caught the 11.18pm train to Liverpool Street and then made our way across London. We reached Barons Court at 12.30am. Last week against Blackburn, I got home at 12.45am. At that time on this night I was still in London.

We continued on. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 2.30am, I dropped the lads off in Melksham at just after 3am and I eventually got home at 3.40am.

It had been a great night.

GAME

FACES

Tales From My Blackburn Scrapbook

Posted on November 4, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 1 November 2023.

Treacherous waters ahead…

But first, we hoped, a little respite in the form of a home tie in the season’s Carabao Cup against Blackburn Rovers. Here was a game that we should win, surely?

This was another early start for me; a 4.30am alarm ahead of a day’s toil that would allow me to pick up my three usual passengers at 2pm. We were all well aware that Storm Ciaran was soon to hit the south of England and so I hoped that the drive up to London would be ahead of the expected rainstorms and gales. I would, we presumed, have all of that to contend with on the return drive home after the game. PD kept saying that the rain was due in London at 9pm.

On the drive towards the capital, the skies to the east and the north were fine, devoid of much cloud, and all very pleasant. However, behind me, in my mirrors, dense grey clouds haunted us most of the way but thankfully did not hit us.

Already through to the quarter finals were Port Vale and Middlesbrough. Could there possibly be a case of me tempting fate by writing about Port Vale in my previous match report? Should we get through later in the evening, an away game at Vale Park would undoubtedly be my favourite draw. The last time we played them was in 1929, almost a century ago. Alternatively, Ipswich Town would be decent; Portman Road is a ground that I am yet to visit. Alternatively, an away game in Newcastle or in Middlesbrough or in Liverpool or in Manchester would severely test me. Ouch.

At just after 5pm, I trotted into “The Rylston” to join up with PD and Parky, who I had dropped off forty minutes earlier. They were with Salisbury Steve’s mate Sam. I ordered some food and we chatted a little about the club at the moment. I could not lie; I told the boys that I honestly wondered if we would – could? – pick up a single point from the next treacherous six league games. I stayed in “The Rylston” for an hour and then an hour was spent in “Simmons” where there was a little pre-match meet-up between some friends from the US. I enjoyed a natter with Nick from California, Tim from Texas and Kim from California. I left the bar just after 7pm and was amazed, but pleased, that the rain had not yet hit.

Tickets for this game were back at the £26 level. Well done Chelsea.

Blackburn Rovers, eh? It has been a while.

In fact, the last time that we had met them was the weekend before a certain game in Munich in 2012, a narrow 2-1 win. In that game, we wore the 2012/13 kit and I hoped that it would not be worn in Munich. I did not like the precedent of the 2008/9 shirt being worn in Moscow. On that day, we thought that we had seen the last of Didier Drogba at Chelsea. After the game, the FA Cup was paraded and Roy Bentley made the Matthew Harding laugh with his antics. It was a lovely day, almost dreamlike from this point in time in a little less optimistic 2023.

Blackburn Rovers were relegated that season and have been battling to get back to the top flight ever since. They suffered relegation to League One – I still like to call it Division Three – in 2016/17 but were promoted the very next season.

I used to like going up to Ewood Park. On a few occasions I travelled up with my Rovers mate Mark, including my first visit in 1994/95, a 1-2 loss. There was a game in 1995/96 when I watched with my mate Alan in the home seats when we lost 0-3 and we were immediately sussed when we didn’t spring to our feet when Rovers’ first goal went in. In more hostile environments, we would not have got off quite so lightly.

There was the Gianfranco Zola debut in 1996/97 when Chelsea completely filled the lower section of the away end, but also had some fans in the top tier too, a healthy 4,000 in total. A fine game ended 1-1 on that occasion.

There was a game that I watched with Mark in a hospitality suite in 1997/98 as guests of a supplier for the toiletries company that we worked for. Until the opener this season, it is the only Chelsea game where I have “gone corporate” and it was an odd experience. The two of us had watched a Rovers vs. Villa game from the same hospitality suite the previous season too.

I have been up there eleven times in total, but all at the redeveloped Ewood Park, none at the original version. I missed the two most famous away games up there in recent years; the 4-3 win in 1998/99 and the 1-0 win in 2004/5, both mid-week games and difficult for me to reach.

The last time that I saw a game at Ewood with Mark was in 2003/04. By then Chelsea were the un-loved money men where once Blackburn Rovers held that mantle. One wonders if the media would have been so against Jack Walker and Roman Abramovich had their monies gone to more favoured teams on Fleet Street. I think we know the answer to that question.

Arguably our most famous game ever with them was the FA Cup Semi-Final at Old Trafford in 2007, a nice 2-1 win.

Of course there have been plenty of games at Stamford Bridge too. The first one for me was the opening game of 1988/89 when our terraces were closed due to the near riot against Middlesbrough. On that day, just 8,722 saw us lose 1-2. Depressing times.

I also remember the last game of 1995/96, a 2-3 loss, but acknowledged by everyone at Chelsea as the game in which the fans played a major role in determining the next Chelsea manager. Glenn Hoddle was to take over as England manager from Terry Venables and according to the English press, Ken Bates’ mind was full of George Graham as the replacement. The Chelsea choir had other ideas.

“You can stick George Graham up your arse.”

We serenaded Ruud Gullit that Sunday afternoon. He was soon named as our manager. Job done.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.15pm.

Still no rain.

Rovers only had 3,000 having turned down the chance to have more. This surprised me somewhat. On the Shed balcony were two away flags. One simply said “Darwen BRFC” and I quickly messaged Mark. It is his home town. It was Mark who first spoke to me about Adidas designer Gary Aspden – himself a native of Darwen – about his collaborations with the sportswear giant and the Spezial range especially. It was his story which eventually lead me to tracking down Carlos Ruiz at his incredible shop in Buenos Aires in 2020.

Just before kick-off, a brief flurry of texts.

Chris : “Good luck.”

Mark : “Not expecting much.”

Chris : “That’s OK. Neither am I.”

Good God, that Rovers away kit was shite.

Us?

Nice to see Benoit Badiashile back in the team. Reece James was starting again. Enzo back. Jackson too. And “Les”. No Mudryk.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Ugochukwu – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

The Rovers team included solidly British and Irish names such as Brittain, Hill, Carter, Pickering Wharton, Travis, Moran, Garrett and Leonard, whoever they were.

I used to be able to name the Blackburn Rovers team, nay squad. Sigh.

At least I recognised their exotic-sounding manager Jan Dahl Tomasson, who once briefly played for Newcastle United among others.

As the game kicked off, I presumed that the folk from Blackburn, Darwen, Accrington, Rawtenshall, Oswaldtwistle, Clayton-le-Moors and Ramsbottom would be singing songs throughout the evening about Burnley Football Club.

It’s their thing.

The game started.

Still no rain.

We were treated to a very rare occurrence at the kick-off as Enzo pumped the ball up towards Nicolas Jackson who got a shot in from an angle within ten seconds of the whistle.

It was a decent enough start, though it hardly got our pulses racing. Unsurprisingly, the away team were in no mood to attack and aimed to soak up pressure. Raheem Sterling, away in the far corner, cut inside and there was a strong penalty appeal as he tangled with a defender. Enzo then released James down the right but his shot was low and straight at the Rovers’ ‘keeper.

Our play deteriorated a little and there were some moans around us. Rovers tried to get in the game but their attacks were rare. The noise, even from the away support, was not great. The three of us – PD, Alan and I – sat with our arms crossed. We must have looked as grumpy as hell.

There was an easy save from Robert Sanchez down below us as Rovers threatened a little.

At last, something to cheer us up; we witnessed a sublime spin and turn from Cole Palmer on the half-way line. In fact, it was Palmer who produced most of the pleasing play in the opening period. His touch, skill and awareness was a constant treat. Enzo set up James again, and our right back advanced to find space but his low shot was drilled low and eventually wide of the far post. A fine shimmy from Enzo allowed him to create space but his weak shot was kept out by the Blackburn ‘keeper.

On the half-hour, a short corner was worked well – for once – and Conor Gallagher lofted a cross into the six-yard box. The ‘keeper flapped at it and the ball fell towards a Chelsea player.

I snapped with my SLR.

In it flew.

Who was the scorer? Ah, the returnee.

Badia – Badia – Bing.

We were 1-0 up.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

The Matthew Harding reprised one of its current songs.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

I found it reassuring when I heard Alan solemnly comment that he refuses to sing that song. I refuse to do so too. I would feel uncomfortable singing that man’s name, giving him some sort of recognition.

I have already heard enough from Todd Boehly to regard him as a fool.

The away team mustered up a late effort on goal in a rather dull first-half, but Andrew Moran’s effort faded past Sanchez’ far post. Our ‘keeper had completed a couple of Word Search puzzles in that first-half.

At 9pm, as PD predicted, rain.

There was a slight scare at the very start of the second period when an early Chelsea attack broke down and Rovers attacked down the right. Harry Leonard just about kept ahead of the chasing pack but his shot was hit meekly wide, with the watching three-thousand away supporters no doubt trying to suck the ball in.

We improved in the second-half.

I loved an early through-ball that Enzo pushed forward early and into space. Two Chelsea players attacked the ball but the chance evaporated. But I loved this variation to the tap tap tap of balls being pushed around for the sake of it.

Sterling started to dazzle and he set up Enzo, who again left his shooting boots at home, a tame effort straight at the ‘keeper. It was then Palmer’s turn to shake off a defender with some fancy dancing, and he created an angled shot that flew over via the ‘keeper’s fingertips.

On the hour, the two players then combined, Palmer stealing the ball from a Rovers defender and feeding it inside to Sterling, who curled a fine shot into the goal, clipping it around the closest defender. It’s becoming his trademark goal. I snapped that one too

Get in.

[thinking : “Vale away next please”]

We had heard that West Ham were beating Arsenal, Newcastle were winning at Old Trafford. My mind drifted a little as I played with various scenarios. We had all admitted pre-match that getting to a League Cup Final, or even a semi-final, with this current team and squad in its current state of health and mind would indeed be something to celebrate.

What’s that saying about cutting cloth accordingly?

Once proud Chelsea, serial-winners, getting excited about a League Cup Final?

Yes. Absolutely.

It’s amazing how a – relatively – poor spell re-jigs expectations and aspirations. I think most of my close mates would kill for a stint in the Europa Conference next season.

A couple of substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

We could relax a little now. Sterling set up Jackson who lazily blasted over. He was not having a great game. There was more trickery from Palmer and a low shot from outside the box. The ball took a deflection en route and hit the base of the post. A low shot from Gallagher went just wide. We were treated to The Sterling Show, with one mazy dribble into the heart of the Rovers’ penalty box drawing gasps from us all.

Two more substitutions.

Moises Caicedo for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Palmer.

The away team broke through our ranks but the strong fist of Sanchez thwarted the low shot from the substitute Sigurdsson.

It stayed 2-0.

A much better second-half, with Sterling excellent.

On the walk back to the car, the rain continued, but the drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset was not as bad, truthfully, as on Saturday. However, the road near my house was even more flooded than on Saturday so I avoided it and quickly adjusted the last half-a-mile. I reached home at 12.45am.

Oh, another home draw, awaits us in the Quarter-Finals; Newcastle United.

Vale Park will have to wait until the Semi-Final.

Next up…groan…Tottenham away on Monday evening.

See you there.

1988/89

1995/96

1996/97

1997/98

2003/04

2011/12

2023/24

Tales From Burslem To The Bridge

Posted on October 31, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 28 October 2023.

It seemed that everyone had been talking about our run of league fixtures that were looming on the horizon, stretching into December, and how difficult they would be. I had to agree. If I was pressed, I would have said that it was only our home game with Brentford, the first of these, that I thought we would win. The away games at Tottenham, Newcastle United, Manchester United and Everton would be tough. Our recent records at St. James’ Park, Old Trafford and Goodison are horrific. The home games against Manchester City and Brighton would be difficult too. We were undoubtedly in for a testing time.

My weekend began on Friday evening with a game at Frome Town’s Badgers’ Hill against Cribbs, from Bristol, in the First Round of the FA Trophy. Despite a rainy night in Somerset, another decent crowd of 408 saw the home team squeeze it 1-0, thanks to an own goal, and the away team missing a penalty. It was a game that wasn’t great on quality but which had me enthralled throughout.

I was up early the next morning for the 12.30pm kick-off against Brentford. I realised that by the time 3pm on Saturday would come around – the usual start time for the vast majority of games throughout the pyramid in England – I would already have seen two games.

For a change, I walked to West Brompton tube in order to get myself down to “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge, the first time that I had walked that way in ages. From the North End Road to West Brompton, I usually bump in to one person that I know and I wondered who it might be on this occasion. Lo and behold, it was Stuart, who only lives three-and-a-half miles from my house in a neighbouring Somerset village.

“Hello mate, how are you?”

Next up were lads from Gloucester, Stoke-on-Trent and Crewe.

“Alright, chaps?”

West Brompton serves a certain type of clientele at Stamford Bridge on match days. You don’t get many tourists alighting at West Brompton on their way to the game. The pubs on the nearby North End Road, and just off it, contain mostly old-school fans. It’s like they arrive at Chelsea via the back door. I like that.

I spotted a new building on the site of Olympia – “BBC Earth Experience” – as I approached the tube station. With rumours involving the development of Stamford Bridge in whatever guise starting to generate again, it was a timely reminder that eventually all available land at Earl’s Court will eventually be eaten up. I have a feeling that Stamford Bridge’s eventual redevelopment will be a huge test for many of us, especially if we have to decamp to Wembley or – worse – the London Stadium if a total rebuild is chosen. The alternative of building “one stand at a time” would mean that the current pitch footprint would not change, thus meaning that there would be a huge constraint in expansive increases in stand sizes.

I am not thrilled that the Clearlake mob will be in charge of this process. In fact, it fills me with absolute dread. Fackinell.

The pre-match in the pub was squeezed into just one hour for me, but the boozer was as packed as ever, and the boisterous mood of the clientele did not match our current league position. On the next table were a group of six or seven Brentford fans. You wouldn’t know it from their appearance nor behaviour, but I overheard a couple of them chatting about Players X, Y and Z while I got a round in. I didn’t recognise the names, but they weren’t Chukwuemeka, Nkunku nor Ugochukwu.

On the front page of the programme – back to its normal design this week after its odd revamp last week – there was yet another version of Mykhailo Mudryk’s “Christ The Redeemer” pose after his goal against the Goons last Saturday.

I was inside the stadium – a sunny day thus far despite rumours of rain – at just after midday. There was a chat with a few of the lads – Daryl now a grandfather, Ed now a father – as we waited for the game to begin.

Last week might have seen our two-hundred and eighth game against Arsenal, but this was only our twentieth game against Brentford. For me personally, it was my ninth such game.

However, the first time that I ever saw Brentford play was not against Chelsea at all. Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play the Bees in a Third Division game. Living in Stoke – and the town of Stoke, not just the city of Stoke-on-Trent, it does get confusing, the five towns and all that – I always tended to watch Stoke City if the mood took me. After all, for two seasons – er, years – I lived right opposite the away end at the Victoria Ground. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I chose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.

I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say “why in God’s name are you here?”

I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

I wondered how many of the buggers would be at Stamford Bridge almost thirty-seven years later.

Kick-off approached and we were treated to the usual three songs before the teams appeared.

“London Calling.”

“Park Life.”

“Liquidator.”

In the lower tier of the Matthew Harding, a large flag surfed over peoples’ heads. It commemorated the passing of our former director twenty-seven years ago.

Then, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared in black and white on the TV screens and the players stood, as we all did, to applaud his memory. There can’t be too many players who are remembered on two consecutive games. The day’s programme featured photos and a piece about the great player’s last-ever appearance for United that I briefly mentioned last week.

RIP Matthew.

RIP Sir Bobby.

We had heard that both Enzo and Mudryk were out, so Mauricio Pochettino shuffled his ever-decreasing pack once more.

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Gallagher

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

Jackson

“…or something like that.”

Those of us of a certain vintage keep talking about the football bubble bursting, but here was another “near as damn it” full house at Stamford Bridge, albeit with the crowd in a very quiet mood as the game started.

Chelsea were attacking the Matthew Harding in this first-half, a situation that I am always uneasy with.

We began brightly enough, with Noni Madueke soon involved, breaking in from underneath the East Stand, unsettling his marker, creating a little space and lifting a shot high towards the goal. We sighed as the effort smacked against the crossbar. Next up, Conor Gallagher advanced and put his laces through the ball, forcing the Bees ‘keeper Mark Flekken to fling himself down to the right and push the effort wide.

The play was half-decent, but the atmosphere was dreadful. It took eighteen minutes for the Matthew Harding to generate a chant or song of note. Brentford were just as quiet.

Lack of beer before a game has this effect.

Can all games begin at chucking out time at 11pm? Oh fuck, no, best not mention that idea, someone from Sky, Amazon or TNT might be reading this.

Cole Palmer, playing deeper this week, was involved in most moves, and his quick mind spotted the burst from Marc Cucarella. His chipped pass into the six-yard box was perfection, but the improving defender’s delicate touch was right at the ‘keeper. There were a few more half-chances, but despite our dominant possession, we lacked that killer instinct. Sterling was a little hit-and-miss. Nicholas Jackson often chose the wrong option, and became a peripheral figure as the half continued.

Around the pitch perimeter there were occasional displays depicting the most recent retro-kit launch. The 1974 white kit with green and red panels – actually only worn a bare handful of times – has been well-received, though am I the only one who finds it just a little odd that Chelsea are, in fact, highlighting and honouring a relegation season?

Fackinell.

It’s nice to see 1974 mentioned though; the year of my first-ever game. I bought a red / green / white scarf a few years back and I love it.

A couple of chances from Madueke and Palmer did not threaten.

At half-time, nobody in The Sleepy Hollow was too excited. I turned to Oxford Frank and admitted “I can’t see either side scoring.”

Did Brentford have any worthwhile attacks on our goal? I honestly could not remember any.

The second-half was awful and I really don’t want to dwell too much on it. I can barely remember such a tepid and frustrating performance.

The warning signs were there. From a cross from the right, Vitaly Janelt crashed a shot at goal, but the arm of Robert Sanchez saved us.

The pace of the game slowed right down.

Then, just before the hour, another neat move down their right resulted in a high ball towards the back post and we all watched as Ethan Pinnock leapt like a lord – he had so much space that it looked like he had sent a letter to the local council for them to clear any obstacles in his way – and headed the ball in emphatically.

There were fresh memories of Brentford’s previous two visits in the league, both away wins.

Surely not a third in a row?

“This was the game I thought we could win for fuck sake.”

We had been getting slightly more joy down the left flank than the right, so the manager replaced Axel Disasi with Reece James and Noni Madueke with Ian Maatsen. On the left, Cucarella was one of the brighter elements in our team. I grimaced every time Reece went for the ball.

Unsurprisingly, Brentford defended deep and with conviction now that they had got their noses in front. Their supporters provided some verbal encouragement. It was their voices that were heard.

“Chelsea get battered…”

In the home areas, the noise was not forthcoming.

I had become the sort of fan that I once derided. I sang in support of my team only occasionally and I hated myself for it.

Frustration on the pitch, frustration off it.

Fackinell.

Two more substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Moises Caceido, the first time that I have mentioned his name.

Debutant Deivid Washington for Marc Cucarella.

This lad has played just nine times for Santos, and now he is playing for Chelsea.

Righty-oh.

A shot from Reece James was slashed high. There had been few other attempts on goal in this half. Then, a mad few seconds in the Brentford box with a cross from the right and two stabs at goal but both were miscued. I had got frustrated with Jackson’s lack of movement as the game dwindled by. He looked interested at the start of the season. Is the Chelsea malaise that deep rooted into our psyche right now?

“I have to say Al, I was more involved emotionally with the Frome game last night. This is just dreadful.”

On a break, we were outnumbered, but a fantastic stop from Sanchez thwarted Yehor Yarmolyuk. Bryan Mbeumo then went close. By now, many Chelsea supporters were heading for the exits.

PD joked with Al that he would wait until the equaliser before he would leave but, with walking painful for him now, he left just after an extra six minutes were signalled. Alan began to move towards the exits too.

“See you Wednesday mate.”

Late on, we were awarded a corner and Sanchez trotted up for it.

The ball was cleared and Neil Maupay, a substitute, was in on goal. Sanchez did well to catch up with him and he made an attempt to foul / tackle the Brentford attacker but Maupay passed square to Mbeumo, who slotted the ball in to the empty net.

Oh bloody hell.

Not even VAR – a slight hint of offside, not in my photo – could save us.

Bollocks.

There were stern faces on the walk back to the car.

We were caught in a traffic jam as we attempted to squeeze ourselves out on to the A4. A journey that usually takes twenty minutes took an hour. I was then hit with awful driving conditions as I drove back down the M4, with torrential rain and then surface water getting worse and worse as the evening progressed. There was even a nervous navigation of a surprisingly deep and lengthy puddle due to a blocked drain, in my home village, just thirty seconds from my house.

Treacherous waters ahead…

Tales From Game 71/208

Posted on October 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

In my international break, I saw just one match and it unsurprisingly featured my local team Frome Town. On Tuesday 10 October, I travelled the short distance to the former mining town of Paulton for a local derby of our own. Frome coasted to a 2-0 lead at the break, playing some nice stuff. Then, a down turn in events and we conceded two goals by the halfway point of the game and we were hanging on. With ten minutes to go I said to a mate “I’ll take the draw” as I couldn’t see us scoring. With six minutes to go, it was still 2-2. The final score? Paulton Rovers 2 Frome Town 7. It was, unquestionably, the most ridiculous game that I had ever seen. Admittedly the second-half had an extra twelve minutes, but even so. It was a demented result. Dodge are in a fine run of form at the moment.

With no European football to bolster our fixture list this autumn, this was turning into a very regular start to the season for Chelsea Football Club; four games in August, four games in September, four games in October, four games in November. Our London derby at home to Arsenal would be the third of the four in October. It was our first game in a fortnight.

On the walk towards the stadium at around 4.45pm, with the sky full of rain, free programmes were being handed out. The programmes were billed as a “collectors’ edition” in the way that many normal products are over-hyped these days. It was only a programme, albeit a free one, and I couldn’t really see it being worth much in the future. But it was a decent gesture by the new kit sponsors “Infinite Athlete” – whoever they are – and was perhaps an apology-of-sorts for not arriving on the scene a little sooner. If I was offered £1,000, I would struggle to describe the services that they bring to the world, and my world in particular. The cover was different to the usual design this season (maybe that is what made it so collectable, if not delectable) and it featured match facts in the style of a ticker-tape at the top of the cover.

It didn’t look much like a match programme at all.

The first stat mentioned that this would be the two-hundred and eighth game between the two sides. Chelsea have played no team more often. It was, in fact, the first-ever top-level London derby, played at Stamford Bridge on 11 September 1907, when the gunners were still a south London team called Woolwich Arsenal. The game ended up with Chelsea winning 2-1.

So, really, forget about the rest, this is the daddy of all London derbies.

This edition would be my seventy-first such game across all competitions and venues and, thus, it would mean that I would have seen just under thirty-five percent of all Chelsea versus Arsenal games. This doesn’t include the game I saw in Beijing as Chelsea have not included that in their total.

Gulp.

I got duly drenched on the walk to the turnstiles and I soon wanted to take my thin rain jacket off once I had reached my seat. It was a mild evening in SW6 and I would watch the entire match wearing just a sweatshirt, a Boca one in grey, blue and yellow, and it tied in nicely against the red and white of Arsenal and River. In the match programme, I would later read that our manager Mauricio Pochettino favoured Racing as a boy before he started playing for Newell’s Old Boys.

As kick-off approached at 5.30pm, the weather deteriorated further. The ground filled up slowly and steadily, but I had a feeling that that those watching in the front rows would be getting drenched. We had played cat-and-mouse with the rain all day long. We had set off at around 9am but after picking up the last of the passengers – Parky – I was sent on a little diversion caused by the flooding of a road near Melksham. On the drive to London, the skies were intermittently cloudy then clear. Thankfully, my walk to Stamford Bridge at around midday and then the pub at around 2pm was during a couple of dry spells.

I remembered that Parky’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge was against Arsenal, way back in 1961 – another 2-1 win – on the same day that Parky’s hero Jimmy greaves was playing for England in the 9-3 walloping of Scotland. Greaves scored his usual three.

I had spoken to Ron about his childhood in Hackney and how he used to be taken to Highbury by his Arsenal-mad father as a child. They would watch first-team and reserve team games in the ‘fifties, taking a bus from their pre-fab to watch their local team play. I asked if it felt odd playing against the team that he had supported as a child, and in that pragmatic and down-to-Earth way of his, he just shrugged his shoulders and dismissed such silliness.

It’s likely that PD’s first-ever Chelsea and Arsenal encounter was the same as mine; that game at Highbury in 1984. It is so famous that a whole book was written about it.

The rain still fell. Stamford Bridge had rarely looked gloomier. Over in the away section, one bright yellow Arsenal flag was draped over the Shed balcony. It shone like a beacon, but hopefully not as a metaphor for the away team as the match would develop.

The teams appeared just as a huge banner honouring the recently-retired Eden Hazard floated over heads down to my left. On the day before the anniversary of his passing, I would have preferred a flag with the image of Matthew Harding being passed from east to west in the stand that bears his name.

Before the kick-off, the stadium stood silent in remembrance of those killed in Israel and the Gaza Strip.

Fuck war.

To add to the sombre tone of the day, there had been two sad pieces of news that we encountered in the pub beforehand. The lads who sit at a table near us were gathered around and I spotted a photo of one of their crew placed on the adjacent table. Sadly, “Hillsy” had passed away last Sunday, the victim of a single heart-attack, and all of us remembered his cheery manner on many occasions in “The Eight Bells”. We all signed a shirt of remembrance.

Later, the news filtered through that Sir Bobby Charlton had died. I was only looking at a recent photo of him a day or so ago. Ah, that was some sad news. Growing up in the early ‘seventies there was nobody bigger, nobody better, nobody more famous than Bobby Charlton. I thought back to two games.

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Bobby Charlton’s last-ever game for United was played out at a packed three-sided Stamford Bridge. I suspect that a good 15,000 of the 44,000 present were United fans. I remember that crazy Osgood goal and the shrug to the TV camera. Charlton’s last-ever United game seemed a seismic moment in time. For United, maybe it was. They were relegated twelve months later.

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

Out on the Old Trafford forecourt, the scene of much naughtiness over the years, I spotted Sir Bobby Charlton before the game looking dapper in a light grey suit and United tie. The great man walked straight across my path. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I was giddy with excitement as I reached out to shake his hand. It was probably my favourite non-Chelsea football moment of all.

In the packed pub, we had raised our glasses in memory of Sir Bobby Charlton.

As the minute of silence finished – not a sound from the four-sided Samford Bridge in 2023 – I wondered if Sir Bobby would be remembered too.

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

Jorginho would be passing the ball square in their midfield while Havertz was on their bench, perhaps dreaming of a night in Porto and another one in Abu Dhabi.

This would be a big test for our fledgling team. Our club, actually, even feels like a fledgling club at the moment too.

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

The rain was lashing down and despite all available lights being switched to the max, visibility of the action down at The Shed was pretty poor. As the game began, a 5.30pm start, the first burst of action took place at that end. A fine ball from Thiago Silva found Raheem Sterling who pushed the ball into the box. A shot from Conor Gallagher was blocked and a follow-up from Enzo Fernandez was blazed over.

We absolutely dominated everything in the opening period as the rain continued to fall. There was an eerie and ethereal feel to the evening; night not yet fallen, but so dark and moody. I imagined a scene from a century ago, another London derby, the air thick with London fog and mist and cigarette smoke drifting over the packed terraces.

Then, approaching fifteen minutes of play, a superb counter-attack that began wide left and finished wide right. Sterling struck the ball in towards Mykhailo Mudryk, whose glancing header had initiated the move in the defensive third, and he threw himself at the ball. There was a huge shout from The Shed – for what I do not know – but it soon became apparent that those closer to the action had spotted an Arsenal handball (or a handy Arseball, depending on the outcome of the imminent VAR).

We waited.

Penalty.

Sterling grabbed the ball, but the confident Palmer wanted it too.

The youngster won that battle and calmly slotted the ball home, David Raya left flat-footed and beaten.

The place roared as Palmer celebrated in front of the silent away fans. I caught the slide on his knees through a million raindrops.

We continued to purr, but there were two totally unexpected errors by Thiago Silva.

“That’s his last two errors this season” I whispered to Clive.

Arsenal, a rare-attack, moved forward down below us but a flicked effort from Declan Rice was hardly worth bothering about.

They hadn’t settled at all.

There was a fantastic old-fashioned run up the right-wing, a full-length battle between Malo Gusto – attacking with, er, gusto – and Gabriel Martinelli, that ended with a foul on our energetic right-back.

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

Clive : “No need to blast those. Jimmy Greaves would have just passed that into the goal.”

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

Chris : “I can just see Bobby Charlton drilling that in on the floor.”

Although not at the very highest end of the noise scale, the atmosphere was at times reassuringly loud. There were the usual barbs aimed at Arsenal and their lack of success on the international stage.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

Et cetera.

A beautiful thrusting run from Gallagher set up Palmer, who darted and dived in front of the Arsenal defence. His deft shot was a lot nearer the target than that of Rice, and his effort seemed to graze the far post on its way past.

Then, another delightful move down our right; such sweet movement, from Silva to Palmer, to the effervescent Sterling, but then a snapped shot from Gusto that again flew over.

But this was lovely stuff. Top marks especially for Gallagher, Gusto and Palmer. Oh, and Cucarella, let’s not forget him, easily our most improved player over the past month.

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

Just before the end of the break, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared on the large TV screens and we applauded his memory.

Munich survivor. World Cup winner. European Cup winner. Night of the realm.

Rest In Peace.

Soon into the second-half, the rain still falling but not so hard, I was lamenting that Mudryk, save the occasional flash, was having a quiet game. Then, Gallagher stole the ball from an Arsenal nonentity, and raced up the wing. I had a perfect view as Mudryk – yes, him – caught up with Gallagher and effectively took the ball off him. The smile on Conor’s face as the Ukrainian took the ball on is priceless. He advanced a little, then slowed, then chipped the ball goal wards.

By the time I had stopped snapping, the ball had dropped into the net, finding that few square feet of space between bar and the hapless Raya.

GET IN!

I immediately thought back to Gianfranco Zola’s last-ever goal for us versus Everton in 2003 from roughly the same spot.

I roared loudly but kept an eye on where the scorer was running.

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

Sadly, the photos of his clipped chip / lob / shot and the ball dropping in are too blurred to share.

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

At last, we were looking like we were a team, a proper team, knowing when to soak up pressure, when to break, with skilful players moving for each other. God, it had been a long time coming.

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

A Sanchez-style mess of a clearance by Raya almost allowed Palmer to make it three, but his effort was then blocked by the ‘keeper when it looked easier to score.

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

Arsenal enjoyed a few efforts on goal, mainly from free-kicks and corners, but we held firm. Thiago Silva was a colossus.

Then, a calamity. On seventy-seven minutes, a pass from Sanchez to Enzo was underhit, and Rice swept the ball into the empty net from thirty-five yards.

Bollocks.

Mikel Arteta had rung some changes. Jorginho was replaced, no applause, no boos, and then Havertz appeared, a few boos, no applause.

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

After staying miserable and quiet all day long, the away supporters were finally roused. It had been a very poor performance from Arsenal’s choir, the quietest by a major club for many a year.

We were now hanging on. Stamford Bridge seemed engulfed in nerves. I was kicking every ball and other clichés.

“COME ON CHELS.”

On eighty-four minutes, another calamity. A deep cross from the right from the previously quiet Bukayo Saka found an unmarked Trossard at the far stick. Through the mire, it looked like our defenders had switched off.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

Ironically, one song now dominated, but one that they had stolen lock stock and barrel from Liverpool, a song that detailed that club’s quite considerable success in Europe.

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

“We won the league at Anfield. We won it at the Lane, Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford. No one can say the same. Mikel Arteta’s army. We’re Arsenal through and through. We’ll sing it in the North Bank. And in the Clock End too.”

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

But it’s the stealing of a rival’s song that I found a little squeamish. Ugh.

Then, substitute Eddie Nketiah latched on to a ball played through the channel and – memories of Nwankwo fucking Kanu – the shot dropped just past the far post.

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

A late low shot from Jackson was saved by Raya, the ‘keeper desperately hanging on to the ball on the greasy surface.

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

“I would have taken a draw before the game began. But this feels like a loss.”

But this was a really decent performance. Many commented that it was the most cohesive football that we have played in two years or so. My God, it certainly felt like it. And yet we have some really testing games to come in the next couple of months. I still project us to finish around eighth, but after the Arsenal game, perhaps I can be a little more optimistic.

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.

Rest In Peace

Tales From A Fun Time

Posted on October 11, 2023 by Chris Axon

Burnley vs. Chelsea : 7 October 2023.

Oops, I had best call it a proper fun time. It seems to me that everyone in London, and maybe beyond, uses “proper” at every opportunity these days.

Here’s how it happened.

The planning for this game in Lancashire began a long time ago. When it became evident that there would be no European adventures for Chelsea Football Club in 2023/24, we soon realised that we would really miss these excursions to distant locations. We therefore decided to fully make the most of this domestic season and would aim to stay over at a few Northern towns and cities. Once fixture lists were announced, and then the fine tweaks duly followed, I jumped into action. Rather than visiting Turin, Milan, Nuremburg and Salzburg as we did last autumn, this season’s early adventures would feature stays in Burnley, Newcastle, Manchester and Liverpool.

With a hospital appointment imminent, Parky was unable to take up his place on this trip and so was replaced by PD’s son Scott. Glenn would join us too. I booked our accommodation; a house that was only a fifteen-minute walk from Turf Moor. There would be a room each for about £40 each. It looked decent. We anxiously waited for the days to drift past. The Monday game at Fulham came and went. Another win, two on the trot, could we make it three in a row?

I picked up the chaps in Frome at 6am and headed north. We stopped off for a quick bite to eat at Strensham Services near Worcester at around 7.30am and then made excellent time. We all recognised the approach into Burnley; I always make a point of acknowledging those terraced houses with the grey slate tiles to the west of the town centre and those brooding Pennine moors to the east. We drove close to the digs on Leyland Street but aimed for the Queen Victoria pub instead. This would be our base camp. We walked in to the pub, which sits adjacent to a quiet curve of the Liverpool and Leeds Canal, at 10.28am. We soon found out that alcohol was to be served from 10.30am.

Perfect.

I may or may not have uttered my line about working in logistics.

Unbelievably the pint of “Madri” – a relatively new addition, Spanish sounding, but English – was my very first alcoholic drink of this football season. For all of the previous twelve Frome Town and nine Chelsea games I had driven, and thus not been tempted by a single bevvy.

And you know what? It didn’t taste particularly nice. Maybe I was a changed man. I followed it up with a “Diet Coke”, but only because I had to drive the car back to the digs for an early check-in at midday, and I just didn’t want to tempt fate. I almost enjoyed the “Coke” more than the “Madri.”

I walked back to the pub in only five minutes.

“Great digs lads. Really nice.”

Deano and Dave from further west and north, Silverdale in Lancashire, had joined us. The pre-match chat was animated and surprisingly varied. I told a story from another time.

“Just after the Second World War, maybe when she was sixteen or so, my mother spent one summer in the Land Army, as a Land Girl, I think in Sussex. She befriended a girl, Muriel, from Burnley, and she once travelled up from Somerset to Burnley by train to spend a few days in Burnley at Muriel’s house. I wonder what my mother would have thought about a son of hers staying in Burnley almost eighty years later.”

I suddenly felt old, the town felt old and the memories of my mother talking about that visit seemed positively ancient. I paused by myself for a moment, thinking about Mum’s journey from a bucolic Somerset village to a grey mill town in post-war Lancashire. That must have been a drastic contrast for my mother. I pondered if there has always been a “north/south divide.”

I had told my good mate Mark, a Blackburn Rovers fan, that I would be staying overnight in Burnley, and I was only surprised that he did not pepper me with abuse. Blackburn and Burnley are two ends of a great divide too. There is no love lost whatsoever.

I also remembered the time, in November 1996, when my mother and I stayed at Mark’s mother’s house in Darwen one memorable weekend. Mark and I had lost our fathers within a year of each other and there was a bond that soon grew. Our mothers had lots to talk about as they wandered around the shops of Bolton while Mark and I went off to Ewood Park to the match. It was Gianfranco Zola’s debut, the 1-1 draw. I am sure that my mother’s stay in Burnley, almost exactly fifty years previous, was mentioned on a few occasions

In 2023, Mark’s text message was simple.

“Just beat them.”

I was warming to the pints of “Madri” and a few other Chelsea faces were flitting around; Spencer from Swindon, Mark and his father Chris – I always call him “Mr. Pink” for the shirt that he always wears at away games, plus a few more.

I didn’t know this, but PD told me that his first-ever football game was a 0-0 draw at Eastville between Bristol Rovers and Oldham Athletic in the mid-‘seventies. He went with his father and he hated it.

“Dead boring.”

I was hoping to tie down the exact date, but there are a few choices; Bristol Rovers drew 0-0 at home to Oldham on 26 August 1976, on 24 September 1977 and on 24 March 1979. I think PD was going to Chelsea by 1979, so that very first game was either in 1976 and 1977.

I asked Deano how he first became part of our extended family clan. It officially started when he was watching England play cricket in Barbados. He watched our FA Cup game at Wigan Athletic on a TV in a bar on 26 January 2008 (that date is easier to pin down) alongside mutual friends Pauline and Mick and the rest, as they say, is history.

It was 2pm and time to head to the ground. We strode past our house – a new build – on Leyland Road, but I was lost in thought as I wondered if the older terraced houses opposite might have housed Muriel’s house in 1946. The sun was beating down and everything was perfect in my immediate world. We slid past the cricket club, where hundreds of Chelsea fans were enjoying beers, with many stood outside on the boundary.

The façade to the main stand at Turf Moor has had a lick of paint since our last visit eighteen months ago, so I inevitably took a few “scene setter” photos before joining up with the lads in the large awning outside the away end that housed a busy bar. It was only pint number four. This was quite a gentle start to the day’s drinking from me. The songs boomed around the tent. I chatted to a few friends.

I soon met up with Alan, John and Gary in the seats and Scott joined us too. PD was a few rows behind us, with Glenn and Deano close by also.

I like Turf Moor, a nice mix of old and new, but I am not a fan of how the corners opposite have been infilled with executive boxes, a little like Craven Cottage. I used to like peering into the gaps and spotting smoking chimneys above terraced houses, and a glimpse of the hills behind. Maybe I am just too much of a football romantic. They only hills that can be seen now at Turf Moor are a thin slither away to the right, squeezed between the away end and the slight stand that runs along the touchline.

Thoughts turned to the game, to the team.

During the week, I had re-read my match report from the game at Fulham in January to contrast what I had just written about Monday’s match. To my absolute surprise, I was amazed that only Thiago Silva had played in both games; from January to October, just this one player linked both teams.

This actually saddened me. Some of the players from January had been passengers at times but at least I knew them.

This lost were just new.

I don’t really know them at all yet.

Maybe this would be the day that this would change.

The teams walked diagonally onto the pitch. Both clubs in their traditional colours. No real surprises in our team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Palmer – Broja – Sterling

The Chelsea crowd were in fine form but there were a few unsurprising boos as both teams kneeled before the game began. Despite a few beers, I had not yet joined in with any of the pre-game songs. Forty-seconds in, the away choir aired “Amazing Grace” and I was sucked in.

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

The sun shone down on Turf Moor and the players danced in and out of the shadows.

“Come on Chels.”

For the first quarter of an hour, we absolutely dominated the ball. Raheem Sterling was involved but exuded that hard-to-like mix of skill and spill.

On thirteen minutes, he was set free by a fine pass from the educated boot of Cole Palmer. He turned inside and we all shouted “shoot!”

He did, but the ball narrowly evaded the far post.

“Ooooooh.”

Then, a real calamity. The home team broke quickly on their right, and Axel Disasi was easily passed. The ball was pushed from Vitinho to Lyle Foster who in turn found Wilson Odobert outside. Marc Cucarella was unable to block the shot and he calmly slotted low past Robert Sanchez.

And just like that, with one attack, we were losing.

It was all too easy.

Fackinell.

A quip from Gary.

“There’s more holes in our defence than in Gallagher’s socks.”

Our play deteriorated, with little variation. Not for the first time nor the last time, we were obsessed with hitting the wide men. On a couple of occasions, a huge tract of land leading right through the central area, from Silva to Broja, was clear, yet we chose to go laterally.

We needed to give Broja something to sniff.

I heard voices in my poor head of TV experts talking about “passing lanes” and I wondered if our passing lanes were so poorly marked – maybe like motorway lanes that are festooned with temporary markers – that nothing is clear, nothing is simple, chaos reigns.

Burnley themselves had the occasional sniff.

We created only half-chances; not good enough from Sterling nor Enzo. The songs and chants continued to cascade down from the supporters all around me, but this was becoming difficult to watch.

Then Sterling, our most consistent threat in a poor half, went close at the near post.

Just before the break, with a few Chelsea supporters heading off to get served in the tight concourse below, I was making a few notes on my phone and therefore missed the equaliser. Was it a goal from Sterling or was it a deflected own goal? I did not know.

It was 1-1 and thank heavens it was.

At the start of the second-half, Nicolas Jackson took over from Broja.

As the game re-started, I decided to sit down, such was my lack of enjoyment and involvement with the game. This really is unlike me. I feared for humanity.

Thus, to go along with me missing the goal, I also missed the apparently reckless foul on Sterling that lead to a quick penalty decision. But of course, VAR had to poke its nose into everything so there was the usual delay – which surely favours the ‘keeper rather than the penalty-taker – before the decision was upheld. It was so obvious a penalty that the VAR decision was applauded by nobody in our end. Jackson had grabbed the ball, but it soon ended up in the hands of Palmer.

He slotted it home nicely.

I captured it on film, maybe making up for earlier errors.

Get in.

The Chelsea crowd roared as the scorer raced down to the corner flag to celebrate.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD” – plus a photo of Alan too.

Smiles all round.

One lad to our left was seen wearing the away shirt from the new “Chelsea Collection” range. This much derided kit, home produced in 1986 for one year only, was hated by virtually everyone at the time; crap design, crap quality, crap Millwall badge. Yet, here we are almost forty years later, and the club has re-issued it.

It’s proof, if any is needed, that people will buy any old shite.

But I spotted some flaws.

“Both the jade and the grey is too dark, Gal.”

We joked about it further.

“If you hold it up to the light, an image of Ken Bates appears.”

“Like a hologram.”

“Like the Turin Shroud.”

We chuckled.

On fifty-three minutes, Burnley forced a fine finger-tip save from Sanchez at the other end, Odobert the threat once again.

Scott began to bang the metal panels next to him and the crowd responded with loud shouts in support of the team.

On sixty-five minutes, a really fine counter. Moises Caicedo broke up the play, pushed the ball to Conor Gallagher and found Sterling in the inside-left channel again. The whole away end sensed a goal. How quickly things had changed. He calmly struck low past James Trafford in the Burnley goal and the scorer again drifted down to the corner to celebrate.

It seemed we were on fire in this increasingly impressive second-half. On seventy-five minutes, we attacked with pace and venom again. There was a ball out to Sterling and I honed in on his facial expression. His face was lit, his eyes were popping, he was full of joy. He attacked with the ball at his feet, and it seemed to me that his whole body language was saying “this is my moment, this is what I do well, just watch me.” I looked up to see an unmarked Palmer at the far post. Sterling had seen him too. His long cross was just perfection. But Palmer, rather than smash it at goal, took a touch and moved it inside to Jackson who was positioned centrally. He was marked tightly, but a quick spin and the defender was out of the game. The striker then tapped the ball in.

It was a wonderful goal.

Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Down to the far corner again.

Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy.

Mauricio Pochettino made two late subs; Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling and Ian Maatsen for Palmer.

By then, it was all over bar the shouting, but there was a lot of that in the away end.

There was even a heavily tongue-in-cheek round of “We’re Gonna Win The League” and we all laughed.

I received a text from Mark.

“That will do.”

Indeed, it would.

I backtracked and realised that on my last four visits to Turf Moor, we had scored four each time.

28 October 2018 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

26 October 2019 : Burnley 2 Chelsea 4.

5 March 2022 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

7 October 2023 : Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Even Mark’s Rovers won 4-0 at Loftus Road.

Back at “The Queen Victoria” there was the warm glow of a victory mixed in with the warm glow of alcohol. We had bumped into a few more Chelsea supporters at the game and on the way back, and there was a lovely mood in the pub for a while. We were in no rush to move, so pints were ordered again and again. Eventually, Deano and Dave said their goodbyes, then the four of us walked back to the digs.

We then spent a couple of hours in Burnley’s town centre. We wished that it was busier, we wished that there was more of a buzz. There wasn’t. It’s no Newcastle. It’s not even a Middlesbrough. Still, we extended the evening in two adjacent bars; a lively bar with music where we downed an improbable mixture of pints, shorts and shots, while I got talking to some Corinthians fans from Sao Paolo.

Lastly, a solo pint in “The Boot”, but things were dead quiet by then, and the only others in the pub were a gaggle of locals sitting nearby, and three of the five women were wearing those leopard print tops much favoured by women of a certain age. It was time to leave. I had seen enough sterotypes for one day. I think we dropped into the first bar for one last nightcap, then we picked up a kebab at a late night chippy, then caught a cab back to our digs. It was about midnight.

“This isn’t our place.”

“Yes, it is, Chris. There’s your car.”

“Fackinell.”

It was time to call it a night.

It had indeed been a fun time.

Tales From One Team In Fulham

Posted on October 5, 2023 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 2 October 2023.

After our pleasing, but narrow, win at home to Brighton & Hove Albion in the League Cup, one game dominated my thoughts.

But it wasn’t our next game, the SW6 Derby at Craven Cottage.

It was Frome Town’s FA Cup tie at Ramsgate in Kent.

I had mentioned to a few work mates and close friends during the build up to this match in the competition’s Third Qualifying Round that I was more excited about it than any other game during the season thus far; more so than the previous eleven Frome games and – gulp – more so than the previous eight Chelsea ones.

It had dominated my thoughts so much that I had subtitled my Facebook post from the MHU before the Brighton game with the words “The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.”

My reasons were clear and obvious. For starters, it would be my longest ever trip to see Frome Town play. The distance from my village in the east of Somerset to the tip of Kent would be 186 miles. It could be a classic FA Cup tie, an away game in a far flung ground, a new ground at that, with all of the associated dreams of advancing further. There would be the chance to meet up with a band of loyal supporters. There would be the hopes of an entertaining game. There were hopes of drama. If we sneaked a win, or even a draw, we would be in the hat for the Fourth Qualifying Round draw on the Monday. There was the anticipation, however misguided, of getting past these two rounds to qualify for the First Round Proper and to meet a Football League team for the first time since 1954.

On 24 November, Frome Town played host to Leyton Orient in the FA Cup in front of a mighty 8,000, losing 0-3.

We all hoped for some sort of repeat.

On the night before the game, the directors, players, management team and a handful of supporters travelled to Ramsgate by coach. My friends Louise and Steve, the club’s historian and my friend for over forty years, travelled up too. On the Saturday morning, one mini bus and three further cars set off from Frome; my car was one of them. I picked up Simon and his son Charlie, plus his mate Ethan, just after 8am. Also setting off was Trotsky and Terry from Launceston in Cornwall; their trip was a mighty 289 miles.

One coach, one mini-bus, four cars.

We would have around forty fans there.

Pre-match was spent in the massive pub that looks out onto the beach and the English Channel. It was a gorgeous day and every one of us mentioned how impressed we were with the town, nestled around a decent marina, close to a small harbour, a vibrant sea-front with bars and cafes.

Southwood Stadium was a treat, with uneven terraces at both ends, a raised bar area overlooking the 3G pitch in one corner, and a concrete-roofed main stand that oozed charm and was surprising sleek and chic.

Frome started the better team and dominated the early exchanges. The home team really ought to have taken the lead just before the break but a chance was spurned. Alas, Ramsgate improved after half-time and went 2-0 up. A late Warren Maidment goal made it 2-1, a score that flattered us slightly. The gate was a healthy 720.

The dream was over.

But it had been a lovely adventure in the World’s oldest football competition and one that everyone had thoroughly enjoyed. Even a long delay in Kent on the drive home didn’t dampen our spirits too much. I returned home at around 10pm, my FA Cup journey on pause now until January. I had seen three of Frome’s away games – at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate, 932 miles in total – plus the home replay against Plymouth. I had missed the home tie against Clevedon due to Chelsea duties.

It had been a blast.

Thanks, Dodge.

However, I was somewhat pleased that there was no Chelsea game on the Sunday. On the Monday, the alarm sounded at 4.30am and I worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I had promised PD and Parky that I would drop them off outside “The Eight Bells” at 4.30pm.

I did so at 4.29pm.

I hoped that it was a good omen.

I went off to park up on Whittingstall Road close to Parsons Green tube station. I had booked a “JustPark” spot from 4.30pm to 10.30pm.

On my walk down to the pub, I spotted the old pottery kiln that stands just off the New King’s Road. I was reminded of a recent snippet of family history. A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off work to travel down to Parkstone in Poole with my Canadian cousin Kathy and her husband Joe, who were visiting England for a month. My grandmother Gladys and Kathy’s grandfather Bill were siblings. Their surname was Lovelace, a beautiful name. However, after being widowed our great grandmother could not cope with the onerous task of looking after five children and so Bill was sent to Ontario in Canada to begin a new life at the age of just ten. I once met Bill, a very quiet man, at Heathrow in 1978 when he was passing through to visit another grandchild who was working in Kenya.

We visited the house where our grandparents were born. This terraced house was quite close to the site of Poole Pottery and the dwelling was probably built by the owners to house the workers. In her research, Kathy had uncovered the news that their father had been a “moulder” at the pottery, and we were lost in thought for a moment as we envisaged him walking off to the pottery each day for a hard day’s graft. We were pleased that he wasn’t a general labourer; that he had a trade.

“That’s weird, you know…him being a potter. The other two areas of England known for pottery are Chelsea, the home of my football club, and Stoke-on-Trent, where I went to college.”

Funny game, pottery.

…Graham Potter to complete the circle? Nah. How about Percy Axon, the former chairman of Stoke City in the ‘seventies instead? Yes, that’s a much better fit.

We even visited the interior of the local church where Gladys Lovelace and Thomas Axon were married in 1921.

Let’s get back to Fulham.

I joined PD and Parky at our usual table at 5pm and the place soon filled up. Salisbury Steve soon joined us. I was sat next to five visitors from the US, and I presumed that they had gone to the NFL game at Tottenham at the weekend; instead they were calling in to London, a first visit, after a few days at Munich’s Oktoberfest. They all had tickets to the game so I gave them a little background.

“Oh, they hate us, Fulham. And we don’t mind them, which winds them up even more.”

They were from Indianapolis and Joe, who got the brunt of my spiel, was a QPR fan.

Yeah, I know.

DJ had handed me a copy of “CFCUK” and so I had passed it over to them.

Anyway, they promised me they would take a look at the blog so this is for them.

“Hope you enjoyed the game.”

Courtney from Chicago and Kevin from Toronto were in our little group of Chelsea loyalists and it was good to see them. Paul, who I last saw in Baku, was back for a couple of games from his home in Brisbane. When he lived in London, he used to run the Eight Bells’ Sunday league team.

That Chelsea world keeps getting smaller.

We set off for the ground at 7pm. Throughout the drive to London, there had been sporadic outbursts of rain. Thankfully, I remained dry on my walk from the car to the pub and thankfully the walk to Craven Cottage was dry too. We were joined by friends Rob and Martin, both who sit behind me at Chelsea.

I bumped into Big John as I approached the ground.

“Not really too excited about this one. Why am I here? A sense of duty? Habit? Routine? I really don’t know.”

Despite a chap with a loudhailer imploring fans to have bags checked in a specific turnstile, I ignored him and shot through a normal one. I was in like Flynn. Job done.

It didn’t seem five minutes since the last game at Craven Cottage; that odd, feisty encounter in January when we played well and then didn’t. As with that occasion, I would be watching way down the front of the Putney End. Alas the rake is so shallow down there that it makes spectating – and photography – very difficult.

I reached my seats just as Alan arrived. Gal was already there. Parky arrived a little later, John later still.

A special mention for Charlotte and Paul from Somerset.

“So good to see you both.”

The rain was holding off. Fingers crossed.

Amazingly, the main stand – now with a dinky logo all of its own – was still not completed, with nobody sitting in the central area of the upper deck. There was the darkening of the lights, and a few Fulhamistas went all Barry Manilow on us and held their ‘phone torches up.

Bless.

Just before the teams strode across the pitch from the Cottage, electronic dance music pumped out and it all felt ridiculously incongruous. At least there were no fireworks; Chelsea take note.

Us?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

I remember that Willian played a blinder for Fulham in January. He started again for them.

Chelsea wore the new sponsor’s name for the first time.

“Infinite Athlete.”

Bring back “Bai Lin Tea”, say I.

We attacked the Hammersmith End, but as I predicted, my view was annoyingly poor. I didn’t expect great things from my SLR all night.

I liked our energy, pace and movement from the start and we totally dominated. An early effort from Armando Broja flew over and there were a few groans. He was offside anyway.

“A sighter” I thought to myself.

The midfield three fought for every ball, and the wide players showed a willingness to come close to receive balls to their feet or to stay wide and stretch out their markers. Early on it seemed like it would be a half-decent performance. I was soon warming to the game, to the evening, to the whole experience. Despite my flirtation with my local side, Chelsea is my team, these are my players, despite me not feeling too connected to many of them. I soon joined in with the singing.

“One team in Fulham. There’s only one team in Fulham.”

We needed to remind them who was who and what was what; this was, after all, the SW6 Derby. The blurb on the electronic signs on the Riverside Stand might well say “London’s Original Football Club” but they are still shite. One hundred and forty-four years and not one single major trophy.

Fackinell.

The irony is, had they beaten Atletico Madrid in Hamburg in 2010, I would have been genuinely pleased for them. And that sums up the Fulham / Chelsea rivalry perfectly.

We continued to purr and Mudryk enjoyed a few advances down the left, inside and out. His turn of pace is so electric. We just need to plug it in and use it.

Fulham had an occasional attack, an occasional corner. Our defenders stood firm.

On eighteen minutes, a clipped cross from Levi Colwill found an unmarked Mudryk. He leaped to chest the ball down, to cushion it, then swept the ball home.

Bloody hell, it was in.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

I screamed like a fool.

The away end, already bubbling along nicely, exploded with arms flailing everywhere. After the dust settled, I looked over to Alan.

The quickest “THTCAUN / COMLD” soon followed.

Less than ninety seconds later, Cole Palmer’s played a ball through to Broja. The Fulham defender Tim Ream tried to clear but made a hash of it. The ball struck Broja. The net rippled gloriously.

I completely lost it this time, arms outstretched, and even louder screams.

“Bloody hell Chris, this reaction is heart-warming.”

Chelsea were back and so was I.

We played some nice stuff for the remainder of the half. I immediately had thoughts of a cricket score but knew that this might well turn out to be a close game should the home team grab a goal.

I kept looking over to the spectators in the lower tier of the new stand to my left. A couple of blokes resembled Prince William and Prince Albert of Monaco; surely not. Next to him was a family from the US, the father wearing an Arizona Cardinals jersey, the mother smiling as she recorded the antics of the Chelsea support.

“Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.”

Then a bearded fellow nearby who showed us his Chelsea logo on his ‘phone, then joined in with a few of our songs.

…mmm, our songs.

It was one of those evenings, like at Brentford a year ago, when we really plundered the Chelsea songbook.

But songs in praise of Frank Lampard, Timo Werner, Dennis Wise, Salomon Kalou, Cesc Fabregas?

Even Willian, bloody Willian?

No.

That’s infuriating.

It is also infuriating that so many Chelsea supporters think it’s “Solomon” Kalou.

I joined in with the “Vialli” chants out of respect for our late player and manager but that is a little different.

Rant over, for now.

A shot from Enzo, bang on form again, rose too highly and sailed over.

We continued to dominate and I can’t really remember Robert Sanchez being tested at all. This was a fine showing and things were beginning to tick. Conor Gallagher was full of his usual running but he had added some fine passes to his armoury on this damp night in SW6; yes, the rain had started again.

We were up 2-0 at the break and all was well with the world.

There were plenty of old school heads in the Hammersmith End and it was good to see. I wondered what the visitors from Indianapolis were making of it all.

Ian Maatsen replaced Mudryk; we presumed that he had suffered a knock. I had spotted Mauricio Pochettino with his arm around the player’s shoulder as they walked off the pitch at the break. I thought nothing of it, but…

In the away end, the singing continued.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

“Conor Gallagher, da da da – da da da da…”

“Oh Thiago Silva…”

“His hair’s fucking massive…”

“Mudryk said to me…”

At least these five were playing.

But then a very loud song about flutes, religion and terrorism.

Oh boy.

Do we sing about low emission zones, “Tesco” meal deals, global warming, puddles, the price of breakfast cereals or the pedestrianisation of Norwich city centre?

No, because these are not relevant at football.

Oh well, another rant over.

The home team managed to see a lot of the ball in the second half but thankfully didn’t manage to do a great deal with it. Was this whole half of football a nod to Mourinho-style game management – “no need to score any more, this game is won” – or was it a result of tiredness and a slackening of intent by Pochettino and his players?

Not sure.

But we were off the pace compared to the first forty-five minutes.

Raheem Sterling replaced the tiring Broja.

Maatsen struck a shot that hit the framework of the goal at the Putney End, but there were so many people in the way that I could not see if it was the post or bar. Corners from in front of the Cottage were also a mystery for me. I pointed my camera at the pitch whenever my view was not obstructed.

Willian danced in from the Fulham left a few times. On one occasion, the ball was fed into Sasa Lukic but Sanchez’ outstretched left leg hacked the ball away. A goal then would have turned us into jabbering wrecks.

The Chelsea fan in the lower tier to my left had been supporting the team a little too openly for his own good and was lead out by four security guards.

The side was refreshed with some late substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Palmer.

Noni Madueke for Caicedo.

Alex Matos for Palmer, a debut.

The game deteriorated further.

Thankfully, no further worries or scares.

Fulham 0 Chelsea 2.

At the end, I messaged a few friends “Thank God it’s over.”

I hurried back to Whittingstall Road and then collected the chaps from outside the stadium. I was famished so stopped at Reading Services for a top up of junk food. The A350 was closed at Chippenham so I was forced onto the A4. All of this meant that I eventually reached home at 1.35am.

I can’t ever go straight to sleep, so after reviewing my photos and chatting to a few mates in the US, I eventually called it a day at 2.30am.

It had turned out to be a twenty-two hour day.

Chelsea, eh?

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