About Chris Axon

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

Tales From The Cheap Seats

Posted on March 21, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 13 March 2025.

The home game against Leicester City was to be followed by three more trips to London for me in the following week. There would be two more Chelsea matches, but also a drive up to London on the one-hundred-and-twentieth anniversary of the formation of the club on Friday 10 March 1905.

Unbeknown to me, it seems that the club must have sent emails out asking for nominations to attend a stadium tour in the evening of Monday 10 March to mark the moment, and to my great surprise and pleasure I had been selected as one of the chosen few, or rather one of the chosen one-hundred-and-twenty.

I am still unaware who nominated me.

If it is you…THANK YOU SO MUCH.

It was a great evening.

I met up with my good friend Luke in the “Butcher’s Hook” where the club was formed all those years ago, and we chatted to other lads that I know, the brothers Dan and Eddie. Our tour was the last of the night, beginning at 6.30pm and ending at 8pm.

Ninety minutes, how fitting.

This would be the fifth stadium tour that I have attended; the others were in 1997 with a bunch of fellow fans including Glenn and Alan, a solo tour in around 2005, a tour with a friend from the US in 2016 and a tour with a friend from Germany later the same year.

The highlight was the chance to meet up, albeit briefly, with club legends Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Carlo Cudicini. There was the chance for photos, but I couldn’t really say too much to Jimmy and Carlo due to the lack of time.

To Carlo : “The last time I spoke to you was in Beijing in 2017.”

To Jimmy : “You know what, even though you played for Leeds, you’re not a bad bloke.”

There was plenty of laughter, plenty of smiles and giggles, and I loved it that Jimmy’s perfect hat-trick against Tottenham was mentioned a few times. In some ways, the star of the show was the Stamford Bridge pitch itself, bathing under self-tanning ultra-violet lights on a cold Spring evening. Knowing my obsessional desire to photograph Stamford Bridge as often as possible, in as many different circumstances as possible, it is quite likely that I would have driven up from Somerset just to take photos of the pink pitch and the large structures hovering over it.

I include those photos here along with a few others from that night. It was lovely to see a few people that I knew on the three tours. A special mention to Annette and Mark, pictured, who often act as my un-paid spell-checkers on this blog.

Before we disappeared into the home dressing room, the tour stopped by the Chelsea bench. A few of us sat in what is now “the dug-out club” and we spoke about the ludicrous price that the club charges spectators to sit in these twenty or so seats. For the two games against Liverpool and Manchester United, still to come this season, each seat costs a mammoth £12,995.

That’s correct.

It’s not a miss-print.

£12,995.

There have been many words of disdain written about this over the past few months. And this is no surprise. The bizarre thing is that these seats offer really crap views of the pitch. The Perspex tunnel roof, for example, obliterates much of the pitch at The Shed End.

But I have fostered a different opinion of late.

These tickets are clearly aimed at VIPs and the super-wealthy (though, perhaps, the mentally unstable too) and it could be argued that a few years ago VIPs might well be gifted match tickets dependent upon their status. Now, there is an alternative. And if the club can sell such shite tickets – and it’s only twenty of them after all – for such a ridiculous amount of money, then fair play to them.

In an ideal world, the monies raised – £259,900 per game! – would be used to offset the price of match tickets for the rank and file, but I am not naïve enough to believe this will always be the case.

To be honest, this “dug-out club” malarkey is a sign that the suits at Chelsea don’t really understand the differences between sports in the US and the UK, or at least baseball and football. At a baseball game, 95% of the important stuff – the pitcher versus batter duel, the base-running, the infield action – takes place in front of the dug-out and in front of home plate. Over there, seats in these areas are justifiably the most expensive. In football, having seats so low down is not really seen as a positive.

That said, despite all of the talk of the club charging extortionate amounts for some tickets at Stamford Bridge, the cost of my ticket for the game against Copenhagen on the Thursday was just £34, a decent enough figure if I am honest.

For this game I was accompanied by just Parky, with PD unable to attend. I picked him up from his village at 2.15pm and I made really good time. I parked up at my usual spot, dipped into “Koka” on the North End Road for a pepperoni pizza and then headed down from West Brompton to Putney Bridge to meet up with Michelle, Parky, Jimmy, Nick, Steve, Andy and Kim once more.

The pre-match in “The Eight Bells” was, as always, a laugh.

I had some good news for them. At long last, I had witnessed a home league win for Frome Town this season. On the Tuesday, in a tight and scrappy game, an Archie Ferris goal on eighty-seven minutes gifted Frome a huge 1-0 win against Hanwell Town from West London. The crowd was 335. In goal for the visitors was Sam Beasant, son of Dave.

A spare spot was available in “The Sleepy Hollow” and so Michelle sat next to Alan and me. Alas, Clive was absent in addition to PD. Alan had met Michelle before; on that trip to Porto almost ten years ago.

I soon spotted that Copenhagen had not taken the full three thousand allocation. This was our third tie against this team. We had played them in 1998/99 and 2010/11 too. Out of interest, I had pulled up the blog report for the game in March 2011 – “Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer” – and I was amused to read this :

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fucking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fucking Danish, why don’t you speak fucking Danish?”

As kick-off in 2025 approached, we checked our team.

Jorgensen

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

Caicedo – Fernandez

George – Dewsbury-Hall – Sancho

Neto

I was worried about this match. We were 2-1 up from the first leg but if we were to concede early, there was a good chance that both the team and the support would implode on a horrible nervy night.

At the kick-off, the two-and-a-half thousand away fans were bouncing wildly, and I suspected that they would prove to be the stars of the show.

Unlike Copenhagen’s vivid pink away shirts of 2011, this time they were wearing the opposite of our colours.

Chelsea : blue / blue / white.

Copenhagen : white / white / blue.

As the game got going, I became fascinated by the lack of spectators in the East Middle. Apart from a hundred lonely souls dotted around, the whole tier was empty. Never mind the dug-out club, Chelsea had royally messed-up with the pricing structure for that part of the ground, although the middle sections of the West Stand were not full either.

Bloody hell Chelsea.

No shirt sponsor.

A whole tier empty.

Sort it out.

Down on the pitch, my fears were real. There were two early Copenhagen attacks in the first five minutes and then on twelve minutes Josh Acheampong made a timely block on a shot from a Copenhagen attacker. The Chelsea youngster had begun well and would often drift inside during the first half.

Pedro Neto was put through, but their ‘keeper Diant Ramaj burst out to almost the halfway line to clear. This was one of our few attacks thus far, and we were really struggling to create anything.

After half-an-hour, I struggled to remember a single shot on goal, on target or off.

This was dire.

Football is meant to entertain us.

On thirty-six minutes, a nice piece of skill from Tyrique George brought the stadium to life – “fackinell, some skill” – but his touch to Sancho was just a little too hard.

On forty-two minutes, Alan realised that he had neglected to open his “lucky European” wine gums, and as Michelle and I tucked in, Moises Caicedo, as steady as anyone this season, won the ball and played in Neto. He tumbled over inside the box, but no penalty.

For a moment, I wondered if the “Maynards” were going to have an immediate effect.

From the away fans, shades of 2011.

“Is this a library?”

“You’re shit and you know you are.”

There was no witty riposte this time.

We were funnier fourteen years ago.

Well, this was as shocking a game as I had witnessed for years. We all agreed; not one effort on goal.

The boos at half-time seemed – as much as it hurts to say it – par for the course.

Enzo Maresca made two substitutions at the break.

Marc Cucurella for Acheampong, slightly harsh I felt.

Cole Palmer for Enzo, deserved.

On forty-seven minutes – REJOICE – an effort on goal, from Trevoh Chalobah after some typically fine play from Palmer. Then, a shot from Jadon Sancho.

Bloody hell.

“Smelling salts please nurse.”

On fifty minutes, a break down the other end and I yelled out “two spare at the far post” and a cross from their left hit one of them, but the effort was clawed away by Filip Jorgensen.

Ugh.

Just after, some tenacious play by Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall, played in initially by Palmer, enabled him to force his way past some defenders and he did well to persevere and flash the ball in at an angle.

We celebrated the unlikely scorer and the fact that we were now 3-1 up in the tie.

Time to relax?

I think so.

However, the goal that they conceded seemed to inspire the visiting Danes even more. Their show of support during the evening really was sensational.

There was a loud song for Cucurella, who was pleasing everyone with some tenacious play of his own.

We had little bits of the game, but nothing to set the pulses racing. There was a nice move and a shot from Palmer that was swept wide.

On sixty-five minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Sancho.

On seventy-six minutes, a Palmer free kick down below us but an easy save for Ramaj.

On seventy-nine minutes, Reece James for Caicedo (“for you, Michelle” as he had not appeared versus Leicester City).

Late on, another shot for Palmer, this one blocked too.

A very late sub, and a debut.

Genesis Antwi for Neto.

At the death of a poor match, there was a close-in effort for the visitors that was blasted high into the Shed Upper and then there was one last effort from Palmer that was saved by Ramaj.

It finished 1-0 to Chelsea.

The gate was 35,820, and oh those empty seats.

A Celebration Of 120 Years

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen

Tales From The History Book

Posted on March 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

I did not attend the away game in Copenhagen, but I know two Chelsea fans that did. PD and Parky, who I collected at 7am and 7.30am en route to London for the home game with relegation haunted Leicester City, had stayed in Denmark for five days and four nights and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay. I was unable to get time off from work for this game due to staff shortages in the office. On the journey to London, they regaled me with a few stories from the city and the game.

Though I missed that match, I have a few others to describe.

In a match report that will mention Chelsea Football Club’s celebrations of its one-hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary, I will continue my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season, a campaign that took place two-thirds of the way towards that 120 figure.

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

I would like to apologise for my behaviour on this particular day. For hopefully the only time in my life, I prioritised Tottenham over Chelsea.

That’s hard to read isn’t it? I can assure everyone that it was even harder to write.

With the second-leg of the Milk Cup semi final coming up on the Monday night at Stamford Bridge, I was unable to traipse across to Suffolk for our league match against Ipswich Town. This was all about finances. I simply could not afford two train excursions in three days.

Instead, I took alternative action and decided to attend Stoke City’s home match with Tottenham Hotspur which was to take place only a ten-minute walk away from my flat on Epworth Street near Stoke’s town centre if not city centre. As a student at North Staffs Poly, there was reduced admission in the enclosure in front of the main stand on production of my NUS card and I think this equated to around £2. I could afford that.

I had already watched Stoke on two occasions thus far in 1984/85 – two predictable losses against Watford in the league and versus Luton Town in an FA Cup replay – and on this occasion, Stoke lost 0-1 after stand-in ‘keeper Barry Siddall made a grave error, allowing Garth Crooks to score in the second half. The gate was a decent – for Stoke – 12,552 and I estimated 3,000 away fans. I approved of the fact that the visiting support sang “we hate you Chelsea, we do” as it felt appropriate to feel the animosity from “that lot.”

It was the first time that I had seen “that lot” in the flesh since a horrible 1-3 reverse in November 1978 at Stamford Bridge. I still shudder at the memory of that game.

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

The irony of Garth Crooks grabbing the winner against the Potters was not lost on me. Crooks once lived in Stoke, in Butler Street, just behind the away end, and very close to where I would live for two years until 1987.

Meanwhile, at Portman Road, Chelsea succumbed to a 0-2 defeat against Ipswich, so there is no doubt that I was doubly miserable as I walked home after the match.

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

This was a special day – or evening – for me. Although I had seen Chelsea play a midweek match at Bristol Rovers in 1976, the game against Sunderland was the first time that I would ever see a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. After the aborted trip to London on Wednesday 20 February, this second-leg took place a full nineteen days after the first semi-final at Roker Park.

I attended a couple of morning lectures and then caught a mid-morning train to Euston. I got in at 12.30pm, which seems ridiculously early, but I suspect that I wanted to soak up every minute of the pre-match vibe around Stamford Bridge. I bought double pie-and-mash at the long-gone café on the North End Road and mooched around the local area until 4pm when I made my way to Stamford Bridge. I spotted Alan and Dave. There was already a queue at The Shed turnstiles. I can remember to this day how odd it felt to be at Stamford Bridge in the late afternoon ahead of a game. It was so exciting. I was in my element. It was sunny, it was surprisingly warm.

I was in as early as 5.15pm. The game didn’t start until 7.30pm.

I took my place alongside Al, Dave and the others in the West Stand Benches.

What a buzz.

A lot of Sunderland arrived late. My diary reports that they filled two and a half pens in the North Stand, so my guess was that they had 6,000 at the match. Chelsea filled one section near the West Stand.

The gate was 38,440, and I have read that many travelling Wearsiders were unable to get in to the ground.

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

The atmosphere was electric, and a breakthrough came after just six minutes. David Speedie smashed home with a cross-shot after being set up by Pat Nevin at the North Stand end. Superb celebrations too. I was hugging everyone.

Sadly, on thirty-six minutes we watched in agony as a Sunderland breakaway took place and former Chelsea player Clive Walker struck to put the visitors 3-1 up on aggregate.

The noise continued into the second half. Sunderland hit the bar. However, there was soon heartbreak. A Chelsea defender made a calamitous error that allowed Walker to nab a second. We were now 4-1 down and virtually out.

This is when Stamford Bridge turned wild. I looked on from my spot in front of the West Stand as the whole stadium boiled over with malevolent venom. Chelsea supporters flooded the pitch, trying to attack the away fans in the North Stand pens, and there was a running battle between police and home supporters. It was utter mayhem.

Incredibly, a policeman was on the pitch and inside the Chelsea penalty area when Colin West scored Sunderland’s third goal of the night. To be truthful, my memory was of a police horse being on the pitch, but maybe the hysteria of the night was making me see things. Then, a Chelsea supporter emerged from the West Stand, raced onto the pitch and tried to attack Clive Walker. Late on, Nevin lobbed the Sunderland ‘keeper to make it 2-3 (2-5) but by then nobody cared.

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

I walked back to South Kensington tube – one of the worst walks of my Chelsea life thus far – mainly to avoid West Ham and their ICF, who had been playing an FA Cup tie at Wimbledon, and who would be coming through Fulham Broadway.

I eventually caught the 11.50pm train from Euston and finally reached Stoke at around 2.30am, and I was surprised to see around fifteen Chelsea supporters get off at Stoke station. I got to know a few of them over the next couple of years.

So much for my first-ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. Even to this day, forty years on, this game is looked upon with shame, and warped pride by others, as an infamous part of our history.

When I awoke the next morning, the events at Stamford Bridge the previous night were on everyone’s lips. In truth, I just wanted to hide.

If ever there was evidence needed of “we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” then this was it.

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

I was back in Somerset when this match was played, but did not attend. In truth, I was low after Monday’s events. This weekend was spent “in hibernation” in my local area, and on the Saturday afternoon I went out on a walk around my village. I caught a little of my local football team’s game in the Mid-Somerset League but then returned to my grandparents’ house to hear that we had lost 0-2 at home to Southampton. After the Sunderland game, I had predicted that our gates would plummet. I envisaged 15,000 against Saints. On the day, 15,022 attended. If only our strikers had been as accurate as my gate guestimates.

In truth, the trouble at the Sunderland game would spark an infamous end to the season. There would soon be hooliganism on a grand scale at the Luton Town vs. Millwall game, trouble at the Birmingham City vs. Leeds United game on the last day of the season, in which a young lad was killed, plus the disasters in Bradford and in Brussels.

The later part of 1984/85 would be as dark as it ever got.

Ahead of the game with Leicester City on the Sunday, I drove down to Devon on the Saturday to see Frome Town’s away game at Tiverton Town. This was a first-time visit for me. With both teams entrenched in the bottom of the division, this was a relegation six-pointer. In truth, it wasn’t the best of games on a terribly soft and bumpy pitch. Both teams had few real chances. There was a miss from James Ollis when one-on-one with the Tivvy ‘keeper, but Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips made the save of the season in the last minute to give us a share of the points. There were around fifty Frome Town fans present in the gate of 355.

On the Sunday, we stopped for a breakfast in Chippenham, and I arrived in London in good time. It was the usual pre-match routine. I dropped the lads near The Eight Bells, then parked up opposite The Elephant & Barrel. I walked to West Brompton and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge tube. I squeezed into a seat at our usual table and was able to relax a little.

Jimmy and Ian joined us, and then my friend Michelle from Nashville, who I first met for the very first time in Turin in March 2009. I had picked up some tickets for her at Stamford Bridge for the Juventus away game and we met up so I could had them over. I last saw Michelle, with Parky, in Porto in 2015. Neither of us could possibly believe that it was almost ten years ago. Alas our paths won’t cross in the US in the summer; Michelle will attend the Atlanta game while I am going to the two fixtures in Philadelphia. It was a lovely pre-match, though I am not sure Michelle understood all of our in-jokes, our accents, and our swearing.

There was time for a quick photo-call outside the boozer – Michelle had previously visited it before a Fulham away game – and we then made our way to Fulham Broadway.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

We were inside in good time, and we caught the introductions of some Chelsea legends before the entrance of the two teams.

We would celebrate our actual 120^th birthday on the following day, but this was a superb first-course.

Dennis Wise, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Kerry Dixon, Ron Harris, Frank Blunstone.

Lovely applause for them all.

The ninety-year-old Frank Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship during our golden jubilee of 1954/55, was very spritely and it was a joy to see him.

Ron Harris, now eighty, was flanked by his son Mark and his grandson Isaac.

How quickly the time goes. It didn’t seem so long ago that everyone at Chelsea was celebrating our centenary with our second league title, as perfect a piece of symmetry as you will ever see.

I also like the symmetry of me turning sixty in our one-hundred-and-twentieth year.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

The return of Wesley Fofana against his former team. A team full of wingers. A false nine. Nkunku wide left. Square pegs in round holes. Round pegs in square holes. Sanchez in goal. Clive, still injured, at home. My mate Rich alongside PD, Alan and me in a flat back four. Michelle in the Matthew Harding Lower.

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

In the very first minute of play, Cole Palmer went down after a challenge by Luke Thomas, whoever he is, but the appeals for a penalty were met by stoney silence by the referee.

Soon after, Pedro Neto whipped in a great cross from the right but…um, shouldn’t he have been elsewhere, possibly nearer the goal? Anyway, despite having a team full of wingers, nobody was running into the box to get on the end of the cross.

There was a Leicester attack, but a shot straight at Robert Sanchez.

Soon after, an effort from Palmer went wide, deflected away for a corner. From the ensuing kick, Palmer created space but shot high and wide.

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

The away fans were shouting out about “football in a library” and the Stamford Bridge thousands responded by…er, doing nothing, not a whisper of a response.

On nineteen minutes, Jadon Sancho was fouled by Victor Kristiansen, whoever he is, and an easy penalty decision this time.

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

In our youth – 1984/85 – we would have been up and cheering.

Sadly, Palmer struck the penalty low and the Foxes’ ‘keeper Mads Hermansen – great name – saved well.

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

On twenty-five minutes, a mess in the Chelsea box. A cross came in, Sanchez made a hash of his attempts to gather, the ball hit Tosin and looped up onto the bar and Colwill was thankfully able to back-peddle and head away before the lurking Jamie Vardy could strike.

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

On twenty-seven minutes, Cole was “oh for four.”

After thirty-nine minutes, Moises Caicedo floated a ball from deep into the box towards Marc Cucurella but, stretching, he was unable to finish.

I spoke about Vardy.

“How we could do with him running into the channels, causing havoc, stretching a defence.”

Our play was not so much “quick, quick, slow” as “slow, slow, slower.”

We saw a couple of late half chances from a Caicedo shot and a timid Nkunku header but there were predictable boos at the break.

Pah.

“Palmer has gone into his shell after the penalty miss.”

As the second half began, the sun was still shining but the temperature had dropped. I noted an improvement in tempo, in movement. Down below us, a Cucurella effort was blocked for a corner.

On fifty-one minutes, that man Vardy wriggled in and crashed a shot in from close-range at an angle, but Sanchez had his angles covered and blocked.

Just after, the otherwise energetic and engaged Neto let himself down and crumpled inside the area under the most minimalist of touches from a Leicester player. Everyone around me was quickly irritated by this behaviour. As he laid on the pitch, making out that he was mortally wounded, the shouts of anger boomed out.

I joined in.

“GET UP. GET UP! WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU.”

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

On fifty-five minutes, there was a great claim by Sanchez following a low cross from the Leicester right.

An hour had passed and just as we had finished praising Cucurella for his fine aggressive play in all areas of the pitch, I started filming some of the play down below me so I could show a clip of the game to a friend in Azerbaijan. Photos are clearly my thing, and I very rarely do this. On this occasion, luck played its part as I caught the play leading up to a super-clean and super-clinical finish from the man himself.

“Get in Cucurella.”

A great goal, and the three players involved were becoming the main lights in this once mundane match. Neto, despite his painful play-acting, was full of running and tenaciousness. Enzo was a real driving force in this game, trying his best to ignite and inspire. Cucurella was, as ever, full of energy and application.

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

We had edged our noses in front against a stubborn but hardly threatening Leicester City team.

Alas, on sixty-nine minutes, Cole was 0-5.

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

A shot on goal from Enzo was blocked by Conor Coady, who used to be a footballer, and there was a shout for a penalty. VAR dismissed it.

On eighty-eight minutes, Pedro Neto hounded and chased the ball in a display of “top level pressing” and was roundly applauded for it, his redemption complete.

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

It had been another afternoon of middling effort matched by disdain from the terraces for this false footballer.

Tyrique George impressed on his cameo appearance and broke well, late on, setting up Enzo but his low drive was blocked well by Hermansen.

It ended 1-0.

This wasn’t a great game, but we had deserved the win. Miraculously it pushed back into the top four.

“How the hell are we the fourth-best team in England?”

Quality-wise, this is a really poor Premier League season.

We headed home. However, this would be a busy week for me as I would be returning to Stamford Bridge the following day and for the Copenhagen return game on the Thursday.

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From An Easy One

Posted on March 2, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 25 February 2025.

Straight after the away game at Villa Park, Chelsea were up against Southampton at Stamford Bridge with just two days of rest for players and supporters alike.

Aston Villa Saturday evening, Southampton Tuesday evening.

No time to breath.

I worked another early shift – up at 4.45am, work from 6am to 2pm, kick-off 8.15pm, back to bed God-only knows when – and a little part of me doubted my sanity. If ever there was a game to politely miss, it might be this one. We were on a run of three straight losses and Southampton were so far adrift of safety that they were hardly an exciting attraction. I recalled the away game in early December when we won an odd game 5-1, and some easy-to-please supporters were swooning with a new Enzo Maresca chant. It was clear, then, how poor the Saints team in 2024/25 would prove to be.

But I would be there, in my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, where I have been for most games since purchasing Seat 169 / Row D / Block 9 in the summer of 1997. Apart from the enforced absence of the COVID era, I haven’t missed too many. I would guess I have missed around twenty games since August 1997; through holidays, work commitments, occasional spells of illness, taking care of my mother in her declining years, but none through a simple “I can’t be bothered.”

“It’s what I do.”

Unfortunately, His Lordship was unable to attend this one. At about 4.30pm, I dropped PD off down by The Eight Bells. I wasn’t quite sure what my pre-match would entail, but I was pleased to be able to park up in exactly the same spot as against West Ham United three weeks earlier, right outside “The Elephant & Barrel.”

I took a photo of the setting sun bouncing off both the Clem Atlee and the Empress State Building to complete my recent triptych of Chelsea pre-match sunsets. As with the photographs, I posted it on Facebook under the title “And All The World Is Chelsea Shaped” after the XTC song of a similar title.

There were a couple of comments that soon followed about the band and the song.

It was 5pm, with still quite a wait until the game began. I decided to dive into “Koka” once again for a pizza. I spotted Gary walking on the other side of the North End Road and he came over for a quick chat. After my bite to eat, I walked up to “The Elm” to enjoy a drink and a catch-up with Gary, Alan, Daryl, Chris, his son Nick and Simon. I hadn’t seen them all together for a while. This was the only the second visit that I have ever made to “The Elm”. It’s ridiculously small, with the world’s smallest gents’ bogs to go with it.

One of the comments about my “Facebook” post came from Pete from Swindon, who I had spotted drinking in a quiet corner of “The Elm” and so I went over to chat to him. Many years ago, he had worked with XTC’s singer Andy Partridge in a department store in the town. I asked if Partridge still lives in Swindon.

“Yes, he still lives in the town. You’d see him around Swindon if you ever visit.”

“Ah, I don’t visit Swindon and I don’t visit it as often as I can.”

Pete smiled.

I was inside Stamford Bridge in good time. Fair play to the Saints faithful; three-thousand strong.

Karl, a friend who lives up on Tyneside, came down to my seat to say a few words. He was here with his young son Harry who was attending his first-ever game at Stamford Bridge. Ironically, Karl explained that Southampton would have been the first team that he would ever see Chelsea play at Stamford Bridge, but the game in early 1995 was postponed. I remember this well, since I had driven up from the West Country on my own for this, only for the match to be called off due to a waterlogged pitch or a frozen pitch, I forget what exactly.

I have been lucky; in almost 1,500 games, only four were called off with me at – or near – the stadia.

West Ham Away – 1986.

Watford Home – 1986.

Southampton Home – 1995.

Aston Villa Home – 1998.

In the early ‘eighties, it seemed that football schedules were often hit with postponements due to frozen pitches. Season 1984/85 was certainly hit by a few. On Saturday 23 February of that season, Chelsea travelled to play Coventry City at Highfield Road. I forget the reason for my non-attendance, but perhaps I had not been able to afford it. I had hoped for a 14,000 gate but just 11,430 showed up. We lost 0-1, a revenge for our 6-2 defeat of Cov earlier in the season. The game is memorable for the first start of the season for Micky Droy after his cameo appearance the previous Saturday. In fact, there is a great photo of Micky Droy with Coventry City’s Stuart Pearce, a photo that covers the Football League from Droy’s debut in 1970 to Pearce’s final game in 2002.

Back to 2025.

Clive was unable to make this game, so I was alongside Alan and PD.

Us?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

Without Jackson nor Guiu fit, our “team full of wingers” were asked to adapt their games once more.

There had been rumours in the build-up to this match that many tickets were going spare, but as the minutes ticked towards the kick-off time, it was obvious that most seats were filled.

Good effort.

At the ridiculous time of 8.15pm, the game began.

The light yellow shirts and the dark shorts of the Southampton team brought back instant and disturbing memories of the “Iniesta” game against Barcelona in 2009. Soon into the match, the Matthew Harding tried to sing three different Chelsea songs at the same time, and it seemed wholly appropriate as Chelsea struggled to link passes and link players. The “team full of wingers” seemed to be doing their own thing. It was, suffice to say, all a bit frustrating.

We soon spotted a potentially physical battle between our own Tosin Adarabioyo and Paul Onuacho – “bless you!” – and in these days of slight and spritely attackers this was perhaps something to relish.

An old school battle.

Jadon Sancho, out on the right, advanced and fizzed in a cross towards the far post but the ball skidded away with nobody remotely close to the ball. In fact, the Southampton fans in row ten of The Shed Lower were closer than any Chelsea player on the pitch.

Pedro Neto was the most fluid of our attacking four, but in general the first ten minutes or so were full of misplaced flicks and kicks.

On fourteen minutes, the gargantuan Saints striker – at 6’7” he was built like the proverbial brick out-house – created some space inside the box but his effort was well over the bar.

“Good defensive clearance that, Onuacho.”

“Bless you!”

“Thank you.”

On twenty minutes, an encouraging move at last. Enzo Fernandez received the ball and combined a beautiful drag-back with a quick turn and was able to set up Cole Palmer. Unfortunately, despite steadying himself, his left-footed shot was ridiculously wide of the left-hand post. He had slipped just at the key moment.

Just after, Palmer found himself just eight yards out, but Aaron Ramsdale blocked the shot superbly. From the resulting Enzo corner, Tosin rose at the far post and headed across the goal. Rushing in at the far post was the previously quiet Christopher Nkunku, who bravely headed in despite the presence of a Saints defender.

There was a VAR wait, but the goal stood.

We were one-up.

Al and I went through our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.

On thirty-one minutes, I had to admire a fine cross from a Saints player down below me that found the head of Onuachu – “bless you!” – but Filip Jorgensen saved the day with a fantastic leap and tip away.

On thirty-three minutes, nice work from Sancho enabled Palmer to receive the ball and I willed him to finish using his favoured left foot from the right of the Saints goal. Alas, his low shot ended up a few feet wide of the far post.

In baseball parlance, Palmer was 0 for 3 thus far.

Not to worry, just three minutes later, Nkunku played a fine ball into the inside-left channel into the path of Neto, who slammed the ball, first-time, between the post and the ‘keeper.

A very fine goal.

I didn’t catch the Neto goal on film, but just before the break I was delighted to photograph another goal. Neto curled in a free kick from the left and Levi Colwill rose unhindered at the far post to head past Ramsdale.

Click.

Goal.

A run to the corner.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

It hadn’t been the best of performances, but we were three-nil up.

If it was possible, Southampton were even poorer in the second half than the first.

On fifty minutes, a Nkunku header was pushed over by Ramsdale and then Palmer’s shot went straight to the ‘keeper.

“Palmer, swinging, caught : 0 for 4 in his plate appearances so far.”

On fifty-five minutes, decent play by Nkunku set up Palmer, but he appeared to be leaning back as he connected, and the ball was skied over the bar.

“Palmer, an easy out : oh for five.”

Neto, through on goal, stumbled.

Going forward, Southampton were nothing. They were, perhaps, peaking from behind their parked bus.

Some substitutions on sixty-eight minutes.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Sancho.

George impressed with his running and close control. He enjoyed a shot – sadly blazed over – and set up Nkunku. His efforts soon convinced the Matthew Harding to sing his name.

“Tyrique George – he’s one of our own.”

On seventy-eight minutes, some decent play by George down the Chelsea right, just inside the box, allowed the youngster to look up and spot an un-marked Marc Cucurella. It would have been easier for the full-back to smash the ball home with his right foot, but he took a touch for safety and swept it home with his more trustworthy left peg.

Chelsea were four to the good and there was a roar from the Stamford faithful. Cucurella is obviously loved by his teammates, and he enjoyed the hugs and handshakes.

I wasn’t sure about his Charlie Chaplin / penguin impersonation though.

We live in odd times.

Two very late substitutions and a debut.

Mathis Amouogu for Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Enzo.

A couple of late chances were exchanged, and then one final very very late substitution and another debut.

Shumaira Mhueka for Enzo.

The debutant almost scored with a header with his very first touch at the top level.

A late free kick for Palmer in prime Palmer territory was saved by Ramsdale.

“Oh for six.”

Sigh.

It stayed 4-0.

I don’t know about others, but sometimes I find myself driving along a road, and I spot a docile pigeon sat on the road ahead. I drive on, hoping that the sight of my car, the noise of my car or the vibrations on the road from the car initiate a sudden sense of panic and worry and the pigeon flies off to seek safety elsewhere.

Sometimes, the pigeon is a very stupid pigeon.

Sometimes, there is oncoming traffic.

Sometimes it is impossible to avoid the pigeon.

Sometimes, I grit my teeth and drive over the pigeon, hoping that it miraculously escapes.

Usually, in such circumstances, I look behind and see a flurry of soft white feathers floating up into the air behind me.

Southampton Football Club; you are a very stupid pigeon.

We crept up to fourth place.

My post on Facebook was an easy one.

“Four goals. Fourth place. Fourkinell.”

No game for me for almost two weeks now.

I’m off for a lie-down.

Tales From The Doug Ellis

Posted on February 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 22 February 2025.

Those two away games at Brighton were tough, eh?

They really tested my support for the current regime. Let’s not make any mistakes about these two matches; they were two of the worst performances that I can remember seeing, especially when one considers the financial outlay that brought those players together.

Next up was an away match at Aston Villa. They are undoubtedly a pretty decent team, well drilled and well managed by Unai Emery, and so it is fair to say that I was rather underwhelmed about the trip up to Birmingham.

No, I’ll be clearer; I was dreading it.

However, my football brain since the Brighton game on Friday night had been mainly occupied by Frome Town rather than Chelsea with my attendance at two of my local club’s matches. A match at Walton & Hersham on the Saturday was followed with a home game against Gosport Borough on the Tuesday. On Saturday afternoon, a little before the 5.30pm kick-off in Witton, there would be another Frome Town game that would be in the forefront of my mind too.

Frome Town used to be a whimsical distraction from the serious business of supporting Chelsea Football Club, but my affection for my local team has grown in many ways over recent years.

As I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10.30am ahead of the trip to Birmingham, there was a little part of me that wished that I was, instead, planning my day around a visit to Badgers Hill at three o’clock rather than Villa Park at half-five.

Glenn had accompanied me to the Walton & Hersham match. He had travelled up on the Frome Town Supporters Club coach – we had a healthy following of around seventy fans present in the 624 gate – and then came back in my car. We both agreed that it had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Frome dominated possession early in the game, but the home team enjoyed the best of the chances. In the second-half, Callum Gould tapped in a low cross from Rex Mannings to send the away fans into ecstasy, but the home team deserved a point after hitting the post twice and got their equaliser via a penalty. Two Chelsea mates of mine who follow Walton & Hersham, Rob and Martin, came to watch the game with us and there was a predictable share of banter about our two teams. Rob had visited Frome with Walton and Hersham earlier in the season. It was an excellent afternoon in the fringes of outer London.

To top it off, at the end of the game, the Frome contingent joined in with the home side’s raucous anthem.

“Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

Laced-up boots and corduroys.

Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

They call us the Cockney Cowboys.”

On the Tuesday evening, there was a repeat of the opening game of the league season when Gosport Borough visited Badgers Hill. This was a frustrating evening as the home team enjoyed much of the possession but lacked a cutting edge in attack. It ended 0-0, in front of an attendance of 379. It was a decent enough crowd on a bitterly cold evening. This left Frome second-from-bottom in the league table, but with a “must-win” game on the horizon, a home game against Marlow Town, the team below them in the league placings.

It would have been nice to be able to attend both games; the day brought back memories of us watching Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm at 3pm and Aston Villa vs. Chelsea at 8pm last April.

We picked up Parky just after 11am and we were on our way.

With talk of Frome Town dominating a large portion of the morning chat, I warned the lads that I might have a very real conflict of interests in April. Frome’s planned last game of the season is a home match against league leaders AFC Totton – a game that we might need to win or draw to achieve safety – but Chelsea are due to play Everton at home that day. I told them that if Frome needed something from the Totton game, it is hugely likely that I would prioritise Frome over Chelsea.

There, I said it.

The moment has been coming.

Let’s hope that Dodge are safe by then.

We made our way, north, and just a few miles on from Strensham Services, I reminded Parky of a horrible moment in time just over ten years ago. On Saturday 7 February 2015, the two of us were making our way up to the away game at Villa Park. We had just stopped for breakfast at Strensham. Unfortunately, I received a call from a carer who had called in to assist my mother and had reported that my mother had taken a turn for the worst. We immediately did an about-turn, and I raced home. I reached a hospital in Bath just to see my mother be carried in from an ambulance and into A&E.

Ten years ago. It seems like five minutes ago.

I made good time on the drive up the M5, and my planned arrival at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at 1pm only mis-fired by a few minutes.

The plan was to spend around three hours at “The Vine”, which would allow the drinkers a nice period to sup some ales and talk bollocks, and another chance to taste their famous curries. Initially, we were not allowed in. The place was rammed with West Brom and Oxford United fans, and the doorman said there just wasn’t enough room for anyone else. However, Glenn worked his magic on another of the security staff and we slithered in.

Parky and PD supped up their beers, while Glenn and I sampled some food. Goat curry and pilau rice for me, all very nice.

There was talk of foreign fields. I am unable to get time off work to attend the away game in Copenhagen – I last visited it in 1985 – but PD and Parky are heading over, flying out from Bristol and staying four nights. I am sure they will have a blast.

At 2pm, the customers began to leave and walk to The Hawthorns. By 3pm, the place was deserted save for us four. It felt odd to see such a transformation in such a short amount of time.

Sadly, by 3.05pm, I heard that bottom-of-the-table Marlow were 1-0 up at Frome. Even worse, by 3.24pm, it was 0-2.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, at 3.30pm, Rex Mannings had pulled a goal back.

Frome Town 1 Marlow Town 2.

Game on.

At 4pm, we hopped into my car, and I headed east, right past The Hawthorns, and I wondered if this was the closest that I had ever been to a professional football match without going inside. This was marginally closer than those games that had taken place at Stoke City’s old Victoria Ground when I lived so close in the ‘eighties.

On the way to my “JustPark” spot just off Witton Road in Handsworth, we heard that Albie Hopkins had levelled the score down in Somerset. Just as I dropped the lads off near the Witton Hotel, we heard that Hopkins had nabbed another.

I punched the air.

Frome Town 3 Marlow Town 2.

Great stuff.

Sadly, by the time I had parked-up, Marlow had equalised. And that is how it stayed. Three consecutive draws for Frome in eight days. At least, Dodge had risen to fourth-from-bottom and were now just two points from safety. Back in late November, we were adrift by a country mile.

I took a few photos outside and made my way to the stadium, past those red bricked buildings that I have mused about in the past, and I found myself walking on a small section of a cobbled pavement opposite the old tram depot. Ahead, the bulk of Villa Park.

All the Chelsea tickets were digital for this game.

At 5pm, with my SLR smuggled in yet again, I was inside.

PD and Parky were in the lower tier of the Doug Ellis Stand, while Glenn and I were up top. Glenn and I swapped our tickets – which effectively meant that we had to swap our phones to appease an over-zealous steward – to allow me to sit, or stand, next to my good friend Terry. Terry was present at last season’s game at Villa Park. He is a local Birmingham native, and a former workmate. It didn’t seem ten months ago that we were stood next to each other at that entertaining 2-2 draw in late April last year. This would be my twenty-first visit to see Chelsea play Villa at their home stadium. I preferred the old Villa Park, no surprises there, but the new edition has grown on me slowly. I like the way that they have kept a few motifs from the old stadium, not least the off-centre tunnel which sits opposite the away section at the western side of the old Trinity Road Stand.

I can’t deny it, those old stadia that grew organically decade by decade, of which Villa Park is a prime example, still have a hold on me and I often lose myself in photos of old stadia, ancient terraces, those ornate grandstands, those sweeping terraces. Football stadia is my secret love, though I suspect that perhaps everyone has noticed by now.

Every stadium has a few secrets.

Villa Park?

It once used to house a banked cycle track and the upper reaches of the old north terrace used to consist of grass as late as the mid-‘seventies.

Football stadia, these cathedrals for the working classes, that come alive for a few hours every few weeks or so, have always entranced me. It’s an obsession within an obsession.

When I attended the Chelsea vs. Newcastle United game on Saturday 16 February 1985 – the latest in my 1984/85 retrospective – I wanted to document the current state of the Stamford Bridge stadium and planned to get into The Shed very early to do so.

My diary from that day brings back to my mind my match-day routine of my student days in Stoke as I travelled down to London. I caught the 9.20am train down to Euston, the fields full of snow. In fact, this was the only topflight game to take place on this particular day, such had been the devastatingly cold weather at this time. Maybe for this reason, I had hoped that around 30,000 might attend this fixture, but with hindsight I was being too easily influenced by the two massive games between the two clubs the previous season.

I caught a tube down to Oxford Circus and walked through Carnaby Street down to the “Aquascutum” shop at the bottom end of Regent Street – a couple of decades later, I would work with a woman who was a shop assistant there – with the intention of buying a trademark check scarf. Alas, the prices scared me to death. Scarves were a massive £55, and again with hindsight I suspect these were the cashmere variant rather than the normal lambswool, and I immediately realised that this price was way beyond my pocket.

Instead, keen to buy something in London on this bitterly cold day, I backtracked to Carnaby Street and purchased one of those leather and suede patchwork jackets that were all the rage at the time. Glenn had recently purchased one, The Benches was rife with them, I simply had to have one.

£32 later, I had one.

It’s the equivalent of £100 today apparently. That seems about right to be fair.

Incidentally, I eventually purchased an “Aquascutum” scarf a month later, for a much more pleasing £15.

After my spell of West End shopping, I set off for Stamford Bridge and met up with Alan, Leggo and Uncle Skinhead outside the ground. At 1.10pm I entered The Shed and ascended the steps to take the panorama that I had planned.

The photos show the original layout of the old place, and I am lucky enough to remember it in its glory years.

That central alleyway in The Shed, but also the one at the rear of The Shed, the super-high floodlight pylons, those steps that were cut into the terrace to enable access to the members’ enclosure at the front of the West Stand, the barricaded unsafe portions of both end terracing, the low sweep of the North Stand, the Empress State Building, the steel of the massive Darbourne and Darke East Stand.

The photos show the ragged state of the pitch and Stamford Bridge looks freezing cold to this day.

A Benches roll-call :

Richard, Dave, Paul, Alan, me, Leggo and Mark.

The game itself was not great. My crowd guesstimate was optimistic in the extreme. So much for 30,000. It was just 21,806. I made a note that around 1,500 Geordies were present, a good enough turn out in those days. The only goal of the game came on just two minutes. A Doug Rougvie cross from the left was headed out but Darren Wood swept it home from the edge of the box. Pat Nevin then hit the bar with a free-kick. The second half was poor, and I remember the highlight being the substitute appearance of Micky Droy as I was walking along the walkway at the back of The Benches to make an early exit into The Shed. Droy had not played a single minute of our previous campaign, the successful 1983/84 season, so this was a fine moment for the Chelsea fans present to serenade him and to let him know that he was loved. He came on for Gordon Davies, and my diary reports that his very first touch almost put Kerry Dixon through. Alas, also, I noted “Dixon was pathetic today.”

After the match, I caught the tube back to Euston via Notting Hill Gate and caught the 6.10pm train back to The Potteries.

I hope that the images of Stamford Bridge in 1985 bring back some sweet memories.

Incidentally, on Wednesday 20 January 1985, I set off from my flat in Stoke-on-Trent to attend the second leg of the Milk Cup semi-final against Sunderland. I bought a train ticket and then bought a ‘paper. Alas, I was staggered to see no game listed. I looked at a second ‘paper for clarification and again there was no game. It had obviously been postponed due to the weather. Thankfully, I was able to get my ticket refunded, but I returned home with my tail between my legs. I can’t imagine the same thing happening these days, eh? It illustrates how adrift I felt from the day-to-day London scene, marooned in Staffordshire.

Back to 2025, and the build-up to the game. A face from 1985 – Mark – was standing right behind me. I always remember that on one of my first visits to Villa Park in 1986 the two of us, arriving way early, did a massive perambulation of the entire site. The stand that we sat in was a much smaller structure than the current stand. The Witton Lane Stand was small, and a single tier. The Doug Ellis, on the same site, is much grander.

Glenn was down with Alan – another face from 1985 – a few rows in front of me.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucarella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Nkunku

Neto

“Or something like that.”

I wasn’t sure that placing Christopher Nkunku wide left would be of much use.

The usual pre-kick-off routine at Villa Park; “Crazy Train” and then flames in front of the Doug Ellis.

At 5.30pm, the game began with us attacking the huge Holte End.

We started brightly, with Enzo creating an early chance for Pedro Neto.

Alas, on eight minutes, Trevoh Chalobah seemed to land awkwardly after a leap for the ball and so was replaced by Tosin Adarabioyo.

A minute later, a quick Chelsea move was instigated by Moises Caicedo. Neto advanced down the right and he cut inside. I had my SLR to my eyes and saw the ball played across. Before I could blink, the ball was in the net, though I wasn’t sure if it had been scored via the boot of Neto or by another Chelsea player. I looked up to see Enzo looking quite delighted, so it was clear who had provided the killer touch.

The away choir sang his name.

“Oh, Enzo Fernandez.”

I liked the way we played in the first half. I thought that for much of it, Neto drifted wide to the right, and both Palmer and Enzo flirted with a central position. It certainly seemed a fluid system. We seemed to move the ball out of the defence a lot quicker and there was generally an upbeat mood in the two tiers of the Doug Ellis. In the first part of the game, there were a few neat inside-to-out passes from Reece James.

Villa, however, did create some chances, but Filip Jorgensen did well to block a couple of efforts from Ollie Watkins.

The home fans were quiet. Ridiculously so.

There was a decent curling effort from Enzo after good work from Nkunku. Cole Palmer advanced and sent a slow-moving shot just wide. There was an effort from Malo Gusto.

We were well on top and playing well.

Worryingly so.

A curler from Nkunku did not bother Emiliano Martinez.

At half-time, everyone seemed to be playing well, but Neil, stood next to Terry, was still not immune to worry.

“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”

I sighed and nodded in silent agreement.

At half-time, Marcus Rashford came on to replace Jacob Ramsey and occupied the same piece of terra firma that Nkunku had utilised in the first period.

The second half began, and Villa dominated early on. However, in the first eight minutes, Neto had two good chances to score. A fantastic piece of play from Caicedo set him up, but his shot was wide. Then, a lofted ball from Nkunku allowed another effort from Neto, but Martinez saved easily.

“If only.”

The away support continued to sing praises of past heroes, and I always think this should be done when we are coasting, winning easily, rather than in a close game.

“IT’S SALOMON!”

Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Matty Cash crossed out to Rashford, who volleyed across goal and Marco Asensio touched home. VAR upheld the goal after a hint of Rashford being offside.

Neil and I pulled “here we go” faces.

The Holte End came to life.

The stolen “Allez Allez” chant from Liverpool, but then the unique “Holte Enders In The Skoi.”

They were fucking loud.

Our play was withering away in front of my eyes. The Villa players seemed up for the fight.

However, on sixty-nine minutes, an effort from Palmer gave us hope, but it drifted just wide. Then, an even better chance came after Caicedo slipped the ball to the central Palmer. This looked a golden chance, especially as the advancing Martinez slipped. However, Palmer lost his footing too, and his shot was cleared by Ezri Konsa.

The deflated and disconsolate Palmer sat on the turf for several seconds.

Before Christmas, he would have finished, one suspects, with aplomb.

Seventy-five minutes had passed.

After the series of three Frome Town draws, I was contemplating calling this match report “Tales From A Week Of Draws.”

Jadon Sancho replaced Nkunku.

With five minutes to go, I think we all witnessed the quietest ever “One Man Went To Mow.”

But then, out of nowhere, came a loud and vibrant “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea”, the Amazing Grace cut.

Stirring stuff.

On eighty-eight minutes, Villa broke and I sensed danger. I looked to the rafters and mouthed “here we go.” Thankfully, despite Rashford’s strong run and cross, Jorgensen spread himself and blocked well from a Villa player.

It seemed we were hanging on.

Alas, on eighty-nine minutes, a cross from that man Rashford on the left was volleyed towards goal by Asensio, close in, and despite my view being far from perfect, I sensed that Joregensen, despite his previous heroics, had let the ball squirm beneath him.

Fucksake.

Neil was indeed right.

“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”

There were a couple of late half-chances. In the very last moments of the game, we were awarded a free kick down below us. Reece James was waiting to take it. Yet, here we were, in the last few seconds of the game that had drifted away from us, and three or four Chelsea defenders were slowly walking to take their positions outside the Villa box.

Dear reader, I was fucking fuming. They weren’t even jogging, let alone sprinting.

“Look at these people!”

Just after, the final whistle blew, our third defeat in a row.

I stood, silent, for a few moments, and then packed my camera away. I said my goodbyes to Terry, to Mark, to Neil. Glenn came to meet me. Outside in the concourse, I spotted Uncle Skinhead brush past me, still going after all these years.

1985

PANORAMA

Tales From A Night Of Firing Blanks

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 14 February 2025.

Last Saturday, it was a case of “out of the Dripping Pan and into the fire” as Chelsea meekly exited from the FA Cup at the hands of an efficient, but hardly domineering, Brighton team.

As luck – or not – would have it, we were to play them in a league game just seven days later.

A trip to Brighton with three thousand close friends on St. Valentine’s Day?

How romantic.

As Friday approached, a part of me hoped that the management team could re-groove our appetite for creative and effective football during the week, but a larger part of me was resigned to the fact that our malaise would be beyond any quick fix.

I feared a repeat.

At least it wasn’t all about Chelsea on this sporting weekend. After the game at Falmer, I was going to head on to Bexhill-On-Sea to stay the night at my Sleepy Hollow Comrade Clive’s house, in preparation for a flit up to south-west London for Frome Town’s away game at Walton & Hersham at 3pm on the Saturday.

As I left work at 3pm on Friday – a very busy day of work, I had been up since 5.15am – it did not take me too long to realise that of the two football games on the horizon, I was relishing the latter rather more than the former.

During the week, on the Tuesday, there had been another trip to a Frome Town away game. For the second ever time, I made my way to Taunton Town. On a cold night, the visitors started slowly but quickly grew into the game. By the time the half-time whistle blew, a few Frome stalwarts found themselves agreeing with my comment that we had edged the first half.

The domination continued into the second period, and we enjoyed a couple of purple patches where we absolutely dominated the game. Half-way through the second half, we were awarded a penalty, but Albie Hopkins sent a shot low to the goalkeeper’s left that he was able to parry. Unfortunately, Hopkins could not nod in the rebound.

It ended 0-0, but the Frome supporters present were warmed by a very fine performance. The team rose to third-from-bottom.

There is a second part to the away game at Taunton, an addendum. On the way home from work on Thursday, I stopped for some provisions at a petrol station. I was sure that I spotted Albie Hopkins waiting behind me in the queue. I was to find out later that the Frome squad did some gym work that evening. It surely was him, but at the time I wasn’t 100% sure. So, I didn’t say “hello”. As I returned to my car, I wondered how the conversation might have gone.

Me : “You’re Albie, aren’t you?”

Albie : “Yes, mate. Why?”

Me : “Oh, I follow Frome Town. I go to a fair few games.”

And then it dawned on me that my immediate point of reference, since my mind tends to work in straight lines, would have undoubtedly been the game at Taunton on Tuesday.

Oh God, the penalty miss. Good job I stayed schtum.

When I left Melksham at 3pm on Friday, my projected arrival time at Lewes Railway Station car park was 6.15pm. There would be, just, enough time to meet up with the Mac Lads at “The John Harvey” once again before getting a train down to Falmer. This was the plan.

Unlike Saturday, the Sat Nav suggested the southerly option to the M3 before cutting across county. I was happy with this since I don’t honestly think that I could have stomached another spell of motorway madness for over three hours. I drove past Stonehenge, then onto the A303. I was directed off the M3 and onto the Hogs Back, and then south-easterly through some occasionally narrow and slow-moving back-lanes. On the B2130, I waited a while for a high Luton Van to extricate itself from a lane marked by overhanging trees, potholes and oncoming traffic. We were going so slow that it almost felt like I was taking part in a Chelsea attack. In the earl-evening shadows, I almost expected Robert Sanchez to appear behind me, ghostlike, and tap the rear windscreen, asking for directions out of the penalty box.

Shudder.

All the while, my ETA at Lewes was being pushed back.

Eventually I slotted onto the A27 just north of Hickstead and I had the finish line in my sights. However, the ETA was now 6.45pm, and so I contacted Mac to regrettably let him know that I would be heading off to the game straight away. There would be no pre-match meet-up this time. I drove past the Amex, atop the slight hill at Falmer and dropped down into Lewes. I was lucky to nab one of the last few parking spaces and then caught the train into Falmer. My friends Frances and Steve caught the same one and we muttered our dissatisfaction with last Saturday’s game, while hardly showing much hope for the evening’s re-match.

Yes, it did feel odd to be back at the same stadium so soon since the last game. I can remember two consecutive away games against Stoke City in 2015 – a gap of eleven days – but there were two home matches between those.

I retraced my path up to the entrance to the away end and made my way in.

Soon inside, I bumped into Paul and Andy – both from Brighton – and friends of mine since the ‘eighties. We all gave each other old fashioned looks as if to say, “here we bloody go again.”

The eighties…

Just over forty years ago, on Wednesday 13 February 1985, Chelsea travelled north to face Sunderland in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. Sunderland had dispatched Crystal Palace, Nottingham Forest, Tottenham Hotspur and finally Watford in previous rounds – no mean feat – but I was confident that we would prevail, especially over two games. However, attending the first semi-final at Roker Park was always going to be a mission impossible for me, a student in Stoke, and I never even contemplated making travel plans for this match.

Looking back on those times, there is a certain regret that I never attended any of the three Sheffield Wednesday ties nor this first Sunderland semi-final.

After a glut of games – six matches in twelve days remember – there had been a blank Saturday before this match because of our elimination from the FA Cup, and so the payers had enjoyed a week away from competitive football.

This was the very first semi-final of any description that I was actively witnessing as a Chelsea supporter. I was a Chelsea fan in 1971 when we beat Tottenham in the same competition, but I was only six, and I have no recollection of being aware of those two matches.

On that day in 1985, I had morning lectures, then caught a bus up to Hanley to see “Blood Simple” at a local cinema. In the evening, I listened to the game on the radio. Our team?

Eddie Niedzwiecki
Colin Lee.
Joey Jones.
Colin Pates.
Joe McLaughlin.
Paul Canoville.
Pat Nevin.
Nigel Spackman.
Kerry Dixon.
John Bumstead.
Mickey Thomas.

Chelsea had a very healthy following up at Sunderland. The gate was 32,440 and we must have had 7,000 in the away section, the open Roker End.

My diary noted that Colin Lee played throughout the game with a heavily bandaged thigh. Alas, Joe McLaughlin went off after just ten minutes and was replaced by Dale Jasper. Sadly, it was not a night to remember for our promising young midfielder. During the first half, the youngster – asked to work alongside Pates in defence – gave away a cheap handball inside our penalty area, and Colin West slammed home the spot kick. Then, in the second-half, Jasper pulled back West and the referee had no option but to award a second penalty. Eddie Niedzwiecki got a hand to it, but West bundled the ball home after it came back off the post.

I remember watching the highlights on TV. I remember how cold it looked. Niedzwiecki played in tracksuit bottoms. Players slipped on the icy surface. Those who went have told me how bitter it was, and there were grim reports concerning the violence outside before and after the game.

Despite the 0-2 reverse, I was wildly optimistic of us turning the tie around in the second game against Sunderland.

As for the second game in 2025 against Brighton, I was inside the away seats with about twenty minutes to go. On Saturday it was seat 73. Tonight, it was seat 93. This meant that, unfortunately, I would be forced to watch much of the action through the goal nets, never an ideal situation. I was alongside Gary, John and Alan, all wearing various bobble hats. It was, again, a cold night.

Our team?

Filip Jorgensen.
Malo Gusto.
Marc Cucurella.
Moises Caicedo.
Trevoh Chalobah.
Levi Colwill.
Pedro Netro.
Enzo Fernandez.
Christopher Nkunku.
Cole Palmer.
Noni Madueke.

On Saturday, we had 5,900. Tonight, it would be 3,000. Again, Chelsea in all black.

The same routine as Saturday; flames, smoke, “Sussex by the Sea.”

At 8pm, the match began. Malo Gusto broke quickly down the right wing in the first two minutes and set up Cole Palmer, square and in a good position. However, his shot was well over. I groaned and wondered if it was a taste of things to come.

Despite many moans throughout the week about our poor performance on the previous Saturday, I was pleased to hear a decent selection of songs coming out of the away end around me in the first ten minutes or so. The Chelsea fans, at least, had started the game well. We had begun the brighter but then the home team had a little spell, and we needed to be on our toes.

On twenty minutes, Noni Madueke raced down the right and played the ball inside to Palmer. Sadly, we witnessed another poor effort; the shot was sliced wide. However, Madueke stayed down having twisted or strained something of importance and after a few minutes of treatment was forced to leave the field of play. He was replaced by Jadon Sancho.

Pedro Neto swapped flanks to accommodate Sancho on the left.

On twenty-two minutes, a beautiful, curved ball from deep from Palmer found Christopher Nkunku but the chance passed by.

Five minutes later, Bart Verbruggen released a rapid punt up field, aimed at the effervescent Kaoru Mitoma, and I immediately sensed danger. I happened to have my SLR to hand and although I did not capture Mitoma’s incredible cushioned first touch, I did capture him just about to spring past Trevoh Chalobah, who was the poor victim of Mitoma’s precise control. We all watched as he spun inside and struck a firm and low shot past Filip Jorgensen into the bottom corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared. I looked over to where Mac was situated but couldn’t see him. He was, no doubt, smiling away.

On the TV replay, we wondered if our ‘keeper could have done better.

But there was one thing that was uppermost in our minds : “why can’t we occasionally hit a long ball like that?”

Ironically, straight after the Brighton goal, Jorgensen did hit a long one up to Neto, but he blasted over.

As the game continued, John reminded me that we had now played over two hours of football with not one single shot on target.

Fackinell.

Another shot from Neto but blocked.

I joked that it was nice of the Chelsea players to play a very high proportion of their passes right in front of us in the away end, venturing further up field on very rare occasions. However, I was bored rigid. This type of football might be statistically advantageous, but it gives nothing to the game as a spectacle.

Football is all about entertainment, right? Well, this rigid and dull conformity in our play does nothing for me.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

No change of pace, no individuality, football for robots.

If this is the future of football, God help each and every one of us.

On thirty-six minutes, a rare attack. There was a fine chip into the box from Nkunku out on the right and then a leap from the otherwise quiet Enzo Fernandez. His header dropped into the goal. This was met with a roar of relief in the away end, only for VAR to rule it out for a push by Fernandez as he jumped for the ball.

On thirty-eight minutes, Brighton advanced down their left flank through Georginio Rutter. His shot was deflected by Levi Colwill onto Jorgensen, who reacted well to save, only for the ball to find Danny Welbeck who then played in Yankuba Minteh. He found a yard of space and pushed the ball past Jorgensen, who was now on his knees.

Bollocks.

On forty minutes, Gusto had another off-target shot.

Our play was getting worse and there was no urgency. Our play wasn’t pass-and-move, it was pass-and-stay-still. I can’t see it catching on.

Just before the break, a load of spectators immediately behind me – about twenty-five perhaps – vacated their seats and I hoped that they would return for the second half.

At half-time, all was doom and gloom as the night got colder still.

However, Noel, who was a couple of rows in front with Gabby, proclaimed that he was still confident.

“That’ll be your toothpaste” I replied.

John, Gary and I were unconsolable.

“Worse than Saturday.”

“It’s worse than Saturday because there has been no fucking reaction to Saturday.”

“Nothing.”

“What has Maresca been telling them all week?”

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, the supporters re-filled the seats behind me at the start of the second half, but…God…the second period was worse still.

There was a little gallows humour from Gary to keep me sane – “Nkunku has got balloons that have gone past their sell-by date” – but the football on the pitch was truly dreadful.

On fifty-seven minutes, at last a little teaser of skill from the otherwise woeful Palmer. He dropped a ball out to Neto on the right but the resulting cross only found a defensive head.

The end was nigh.

On sixty-three minutes, Brighton recovered the ball and started a move. However, I focused on Levi Colwill who had given the ball away but was now sat on his arse appealing for a foul to be given. I was fuming. Can anyone imagine John Terry or Gary Cahill doing this? The ball was worked out to Minteh. There was a one-two with the always canny Danny Welbeck, and Minteh advanced. My eyes flipped back to Colwill, now slowly jogging back, and I began venting. Before I could blink, Minteh danced past a gathering of Chelsea defenders who were showing the same lackadaisical tendencies as Colwill, and smashed home. One final half-arsed attempt by Colwill involved him lunging at nothing and it made my blood boil.

We were 0-3 down.

Bollocks.

I fumed at Tombsy.

“Did you see Colwill there? Fucking disgrace.”

Way too late, Maresca made three substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

At least the youngster George added a little late vitality to the game, but by now the away end was decimated. People had left en masse at 0-3 and I warned the lads that I would be off at the eighty-minute mark.

My problem was this. When I am with PD and LP, who both walk with sticks, we are allowed to “fast-track” to the platform at Falmer. Tonight, I was by myself. If I left at the end of the game, I would probably face an hour-long wait. In an ideal world, it would be Chelsea leading 3-0 and I could set off at eighty minutes a happy man.

Alas not. In fact, I left earlier still, on seventy-eight minutes. For only the fifth or sixth time in almost 1,500 games I left early. I felt awful ascending those steps to the exits.

Outside, the night bit me. To keep myself warm, I raced down the slope, and it seemed that my exit strategy was working. There were few people ahead of me.

Thankfully, just as I approached the final ramp at the station, the 2146 train pulled in. By 2153 I was back at Falmer. By 2245 I was back at Clive’s house in Bexhill-On-Sea.

Clive would soon confirm that we had not managed a single shot on target the entire game.

Yes, dear reader, we had been firing blanks on St. Valentine’s Day.

Clive and I endured a typical post-mortem, and it was dominated by negatives.

The only positive was that I was off to see Frome Town the next day.

1985 : Chelsea

2025 : Frome Town

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on February 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 8 February 2025.

So, two games at Brighton in seven days.

On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.

On Friday 14 February in the League.

Both games at 8pm.

They are a funny side, Brighton, almost as funny as us. We had beaten them 4-2 earlier in the season, and they had lost 0-7 at Nottingham Forest in their last league outing. But on their day, they are capable of much greater things. The two games would be a test of our resolve, and maybe a test of our support too.

For the FA Cup encounter, our support passed with flying colours. I believe that we were originally given 4,000 tickets, but this eventually went up to around 6,000 when it transpired that the home team was having trouble in shifting tickets.

If nothing else, having such a solid away support would be a good experience, a right royal show of strength, and a nod to previous eras when our away support was rock solid.

The travel plans were sorted out, but with a late change. It suddenly dawned on me that I could get an extra game in, at Lewes, while PD and Parky would be getting some beers in at a local pub. For this reason, I set off a little earlier than planned. I called for PD at 11am and I called in for Parky at 11.30am. The plan was to be parked up at Lewes train station at 2.30pm to enable me to attend the Lewes vs. Potters Bar Town game in the Isthmian Premier at 3pm. This is the same level of football that my local team, Frome Town, compete.

At Step Three – level seven – there are four divisions and I include here the average gates too :

Northern Premier / 726

Southern League Premier – Central / 560

Southern League Premier – South / 593

Isthmian Premier / 714

While I would be watching at Lewes, Frome Town would be playing a home game against Sholing. I am far from a ground-hopper, but my interest in watching a game at Lewes was piqued when I purchased the “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” book a few years ago. Of all the stadia within these isles, The Dripping Pan at Lewes was voted top of the pile. It certainly looked a quaint and quirky stadium with plenty of idiosyncratic features, but was it really the very best of the lot? I was about to find out.

The drive down to Sussex was rather boring, with murky weather overhead, and greyness all around me. There was fog early on, but at least the rain was minimal. The route itself did not help; rather than the more picturesque road south to Salisbury and then passing by Southampton and Portsmouth, past Chichester, my Sat Nav took me north to the M4, then around the M25, then down the M23. For once, I didn’t enjoy the drive too much.

I was held up in a little traffic on the M25 and eventually deposited PD and Parky in the centre of Lewes at 2.40pm. I made my way to the train station, but it took more time than I had hoped to get my newly acquired parking app to register my car. While I was cursing modern technology, a ‘phone call from PD.

“What’s the pub called, again?”

They were already lost.

Due to my delay at the car park, and despite The Dripping Pan being only a five-minute walk away, I entered the stadium four minutes late with the home team already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I positioned myself on the large – for non-league standards – covered home terrace and got my bearings. It was indeed a quirky stadium, but the overcast weather did not help me to fully appreciate its charms. However, it certainly was different. There were beach huts as sponsor lounges, a viewing area atop a lovely grass bank, a substantial terraced away section, and a plush stand with seats along the side. There was a bar right behind the home end – it resembled a pub – and in the corner I spotted what can only be termed a rockery, with plants and palms. I hope the photos do it all justice.

But I had to think to myself; “the very best in Britain?”

I wasn’t so sure.

I watched from a few viewpoints to get the maximum effect. I spoke to a chap from Stoke, now living nearby, about how much I like the non-league scene these days. On the pitch, the home team equalised just before half-time but then conceded again before the break. However, my mind wasn’t really on this game. My mind was back in Somerset, and alas Frome Town were losing 0-1. The game at Lewes was a slow burner and only really came to life in the last fifteen minutes; the home team equalised with a fine goal, only to concede again in the fourth minute of injury time. Potters Bar Town, cheered on by around fifteen fans and one flag, won 3-2. The gate was 705.

In deepest Somerset, Frome’s fine revival came to a spluttering end, with a demoralising 0-3 home defeat. The gate there was a disappointing 452.

In truth, although my body was at The Dripping Pan, my head was at Badgers Hill throughout the entire afternoon, and it absolutely reminded me that I only tend to really enjoy football these days if I have a vested interest in one of the teams playing.

I met up with PD and LP after the game at “The John Harvey” and the two of them were squeezed in at a table with Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire. I made a point of saying that “the last time I was here, we lost 4-1”, that hideous game two seasons ago when Graham Potter visited his former club and was sent packing. We were well and truly stuffed that day.

“The John Harvey” is a cracking little pub in Lewes town centre, which itself is a cracking little town. We were soon joined by my Brighton mate Mac and his friend Nick. They are both occasional visitors to The Dripping Pan themselves.

I mentioned its place in “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” to the lads, and explained how Stamford Bridge is not featured at all. That’s right, dear reader, our beloved stadium is not even in the top one hundred. However, had the original pre-1993 edition still be in existence, I am sure that it would be in the top ten, such is the love these days of old-school stadia, original sweeping terraces, old stands, crush barriers, and the like.

Nick commented that Stamford Bridge could be a dangerous place to attend a few decades ago. However, the overall listings within the book were not really concerned with past spectator safety but were attributed to architectural significance, history, ambiance and atmosphere.

Mac remembered a game that he had attended at Stamford Bridge with Nick, as neutrals, back in 1985 against Sheffield Wednesday and I was rather pleased to tell them that I was going to be featuring that very game in my retrospective section of my report for the day’s match.

How’s that for synchronicity?

Let’s head back to February 1985.

Two days after the away game at Leicester City, Chelsea were at home to Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup on Monday 4 February. I listened to the match updates on Radio Two and was saddened to hear that we were 0-1 down. Later, the score went to 2-2 with our goals coming from Paul Canoville and Nigel Spackman, but then Millwall went ahead via Steve Lovell. In the eighty-seventh minute, our quite ridiculous penalty woes continued as David Speedie – despite netting from the spot at Filbert Street – blasted way over. We lost 2-3 and were out of the FA Cup. I had hoped for a gate of 24,000 so was probably pleased that 25,148 were at Stamford Bridge that night. The Millwall manager at the time was George Graham. I wonder what happened to him.

The second replay of our Milk Cup quarter final against Sheffield Wednesday at Stamford Bridge took place on Thursday 6 February. On that day, I travelled back to Somerset by train from Stoke after a couple of morning lectures and so I listened in to the game on the radio at home. For those keeping count, Chelsea played six games in just twelve days, as miraculous as that sounds today. The whole radio programme was devoted to our game, a rare occurrence in those days.

The second replay against Sheffield Wednesday was a classic. They went ahead via Gary Shelton on twelve minutes, but we were level when an incredible bit of skill from Pat Nevin allowed him to set up a David Speedie header on thirty minutes. His “scoop” over the wall to himself was magical. Then, in the final minute, a Paul Canoville corner was headed home by the mercurial Mickey Thomas.

At home, in Somerset, I went wild and was close to tears.

For the first time that I could remember, we had reached a semi-final.

After the 25,148 gate on the Monday, Stamford Bridge hosted a crowd of 36,395 on that Wednesday. And that number included Mac and Nick, who went with some Sheffield Wednesday friends, and watched among the Wednesday throng from the north terrace. Mac admitted to me how scared he was that evening. The away end at Stamford Bridge was no easy place to slope away from, especially since there were often Chelsea supporters in other pens in the same end, sharing the same limited exit routes. On many occasions, Chelsea would secretly infiltrate the away pens too.

I never once watched a game from that north terrace; I think it is safe to say that I had my reasons.

There is some TV footage of the baying Stamford Bridge crowd that night, several minutes after the end of the game, showing an ecstatic home crowd staying in the stadium, lording it over the away fans, in their pomp. There are extended shots of fans climbing all over the security fences, pointing and gesticulating at the Wednesday fans –

“WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY, WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY – YOU AIN’T, YOU AIN’T”

Unfortunately, I can only access it via a private Facebook group and so can’t share it here but the venom and vitriol – AND NOISE – generated by those Chelsea fans…I can’t lie, virtually all lads…that night got me all dewy-eyed when I first witnessed it a few years ago. Those noisy days of my youth were spellbinding. I miss them dearly.

In Lewes, in 2025, we had made our way outside and stood with our drinks. It was about 6pm, so Julie and Tim left to catch an early train to the stadium. The closing moments of the England vs. France rugby match was taking place inside the pub and I did my best to show no interest whatsoever.

At around 6.30pm, we said our goodbyes to Mac and Nick – “See you Friday, mate” – and walked back to the station to catch the train to Falmer.

It left at 6.58pm.

I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.

Perfect timing.

The three of us were split up in various areas of the Chelsea support which in this case featured all of one end and wrapped itself around into a couple of sections of the stand along the side. As luck would have it, I was right in front of my usual match-day mate John. As kick-off approached, the away crowd grew and grew, and I was able to spot so many familiar faces. I have never really noticed before, but the seats at the Amex are padded. Nobody sits at away games. I had no real reason to notice before.

As kick-off approached, “Sussex by the Sea” was lustily sung by the home support, which looked to be at around two-thirds capacity. Our tickets were just £25. I have no doubt that the price was the same in the home areas. That’s poor from the Brighton support. On the premise that our extra thousand tickets sold out in just eight minutes, I wondered how many we could have sold in total, despite the problems of a late kick-off on a Saturday evening. Maybe eight thousand? Who knows.

A predictable show of flames and fumes in front of the stand to our right, and then the teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this line up.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Nkunku

I suppose we had no choice but to wear the black kit, but it couldn’t have been easy picking out teammates in the evening murk.

I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.

“Yeah, I know.”

The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.

We attacked the far end and began well. Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall hit the side netting with the game’s first offering. Next, a nice move down the right. The ball was played out to Pedro Neto, who spun behind his marker and accelerated away. He passed to Jadon Sancho, who played the ball to Cole Palmer. Palmer tested Bart Verbruggen with a dipping shot that needed to be palmed over.

“C’mon Chels.”

From the corner that followed, which Palmer took, the ball was played back and square – to be honest I was distracted by something – and by the time I looked up, the ball had been played back into the box by Palmer and somehow ended up in the goal. I roared and fist-pumped, though I wasn’t exactly sure how or why Verbruggen had not dealt with the ball in.

We purred as we witnessed a lovely sliding tackle from Trevoh Chalobah as a Brighton attack found its way inside the box. However, not long after, Brighton attacked our other flank, our right, and Tariq Lamptey was able to cross. This time, Chalobah did not perform so well. His header went to a Brighton player, who set up to Joel Veltman. He curled a short cross into the danger area. Georginio Rutter rose unchallenged – between two defenders – and his well-aimed header dropped into the goal. I was right in line with the header and mumbled “goal” to myself before it had crossed the line.

Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.

Bollocks.

Twelve minutes had passed, and it was tied 1-1.

Within a few seconds, the stand to my left – I know where Mac sits, I spotted him – boomed “Albion, Albion.”

We noticed Christopher Nkunku coming back to receive a ball from a central defender, way deep, and this was not a one-off. He was playing in the midfield area and we were aghast. As the first half continued, and as we continued to struggle to put anything together, we noted how reluctant Nkunku was to occupy the space usually manned by Nicolas Jackson. I presumed that this was under the instruction of Maresca. With Palmer coming deep as well, we simply did not have much of an attacking threat. Neto, who had begun well, withered away, and Sancho was reluctant to advance. In truth, there was no movement upfront for the wingers to hit quite simply because there was nobody upfront.

It was all very lacklustre and poor. From both sides in fact, but of course we were more concerned about our lack of energy, creativity, drive and football intelligence.

The Chelsea choir, that had begun the game in relatively good form, began to fade.

An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.

“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”

Jimmy the Greek, who was a few yards ahead of me, turned to me and we both took turns to yell –

“It’s Salomon!”

This was a poor football match. Palmer, our creative force, was quiet and the rest seemed disinterested.

One passage of play summed it all up. A quick ball was played through to Sancho who was probably level with the Brighton penalty box. However, instead of him going on to the front foot and asking questions of his marker, within five seconds the ball was back with Chalobah in our own half.

Fucksake.

Our only notable chance came when Moises Caicedo spotted a rare run from Nkunku. His lofted ball dropped perfectly for a strike on goal, but instead the timid Nkunku hooked the ball over to Palmer whose headed effort lacked, well, everything and dropped lamely over the bar and onto the roof of the net.

Crap.

This was a grey and passionless performance.

Half-time arrived and the away end was numbed by our limp showing thus far. I said to a few mates “can we flip a coin and get it over and done with now?” The night was getting colder, and the football was not warming us up one iota. Sadly, the second period was bloody worse.

Soon into the half, a spirited chant from the away end tried its best to rally the troops.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

How ‘eighties.

We dominated possession but had no idea how to break the home defence down. Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Brighton broke quickly via a searching ball from Rutter who found the dangerous Kaoru Mitoma. He played the ball in to Lamptey. His shot was blocked, and I saw players fall as the ball ricocheted around. The ball then ended up being aimed at Mitoma. From my angle, the ball appeared to hit his raised hand, but we all watched in agony as he took the ball down and placed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

Bollocks.

With that, Enzo Fernandez replaced the utterly forgettable Dewsbury-Hall.

Just after, chants for Roman Abramovich, but no chances.

A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

“Cam On Chowlsea.”

“Carefree.”

We struggled to create anything. I can only recollect a few shots on goal. An effort from Enzo whizzed past the post. Marc Cucarella – booed by the home crowd from the start – set up Palmer but he was always stretching, and the effort went hopelessly high and wide.

I said to John “we’ve got worse this half.”

On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Tyrique George for Sancho.

The away end was like a morgue in the final portion of the game.

George tried his best, and on ninety-three minutes he turned inside and shot at goal, but the shot sailed over.

As the game drifted to its inevitable conclusion, there was the irony of a firm strike from Enzo being – wait for it – on target but it was saved by Verbruggen, only for the ball to have gone out for a corner in the build-up to the shot in any case. It was a shot on goal that wasn’t.

Oh boy.

The game ended and we were out.

Out of both domestic cups in early February.

There had been no reaction at half-time, and there had been no reaction to Brighton’s second goal.

Shocking.

It was, hand on heart, one of the worst Chelsea performances that I can ever remember seeing. One shot on target during the entire game? Good grief, Enzo Maresca.

As I exited past the padded seats, I wondered if I might need a padded cell in the coming weeks and months. I was aware that a few players were walking towards the away end, but I turned my back to them and left.

We hurriedly made our way back to Lewes, and I drove home. I reached my house just after 2am.

Fackinell.

And on Friday, we go back to the scene of the crime again.

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From A Painful Watch

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez. Spin the wheel.”

This was a painful match to watch, and this is going to be a painful edition to write.

As is so often the case, the football managed to get in the way of an otherwise enjoyable day out.

Clear driving, perfect timings, fine weather, blue skies, good company, contrasting landscapes, interesting new pubs, friendly locals.

But also football.

Fackinell.

This would be my fifty-fifth Chelsea versus Manchester City game in all competitions and at all venues. It would be my twentieth visit to the Etihad. In the previous nineteen, we had won just five.

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

The preparations for this trip north had been set in stone for a while. Normally for games in Manchester, we stop at the Tabley interchange on the M6 and enjoy some food and drinks at “The Windmill”. We visit so regularly that the landlady recognises us. However, I realised that this pre-match routine wasn’t particularly lucky for us. In fact, I can never remember us winning at either City nor United since this has been our Manchester pre-game plan. I decided we needed a change.

Rather than a pre-match spent to the south-west of the city, I decided to flip things one-hundred and eighty degrees, and head up to the moors overlooking the empire of Mancunia to the north-east of the city centre.

I explained my plans to PD and Parky, and there were no complaints.

I collected PD at 8.30am and PD at 9am. The idea was to arrive at the first of a little string of three or four pubs to the northeast of Oldham at around 1pm and to stay until 4pm before setting off for the game.

Soon on our way, PD asked me of my thoughts about the evening’s match.

I grimaced as I replied “I think we can get something today, maybe even a win.”

After all, simply put, City had not been City in the past few months. The collapse in Paris on Wednesday, I hoped, had unsettled them further.

The skies were clear, clear blue, as we headed north. We stopped for a very quick breakfast at Strensham on the M5. Our next stop was at Keele on the M6. For the last hour, New Order’s “Music Complete” accompanied us as I drove on. It got me, at least, in the mood for a few hours in Manchester.

We swept over the Thelwall Viaduct. Winter Hill, just to the north of Bolton, just a few miles north of where we won the league almost twenty years ago, was clearly visible. I curled around onto the M62 and then hit the M60 orbital. Then back onto the M62 again as we rose higher and higher. The skies were still magnificently clear. One view in particular was stunning; a wide and vast panorama of moorland, valleys, industrial heritage, rooftops.

Then, at last, a southern spur on the A672 took me to our first stop, the Rams Head pub on Ripponden Road.

We arrived at 1.15pm. A cold wind howled around me as I took a few photos of the rugged and wild moors that surrounded the pub. We settled in for the best part of an hour and befriended a local couple who had popped in for a pint or two. I was in for a shock. They informed me that pub was actually in Yorkshire, and the Lancashire border was a few miles away, but we would pass that important line soon. The log fire roared next to us. What a cosy place on top of such a wind-blown summit.

This area – Saddleworth Moor – is of course tainted with the horrific events of the mid ‘sixties and the atrocious acts of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

We drove a couple of miles south-west to the next pub, The Printers, and were again welcomed with open arms by the staff. We squeezed in at a table next to a roaring fire. The beers were cheap, the pub was warming. The landlady gave us each a hug as we left and hoped we won. She was United. I had explained the need for us to break the ill-luck of visiting “The Windmill” at Tabley, and optimistically said “see you next season.”

At 3pm, we ventured further south and entered the final stop of this pre-game pub crawl, The Kings Arms. This overlooked yet more naked moorland and was a very busy hostelry. A City fan at the next table chatted for a while. Above the bar was a wooden beam that signalled the exact boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire. The toilets were in Yorkshire.

At 4pm, we headed off to the game. From a geographical perspective, the Ripponden Road, the A672, resembled a long straight ski jump that would eventually send us hurtling into the heart of Manchester.

We were sent right through the middle of Oldham. PD remembers being in digs in Oldham while working with one of Frome’s many road gangs. But none of us had ever watched a game at Boundary Park, home of the town’s team Oldham Athletic.

The football scene in the Manchester conurbation has changed somewhat in recent years. Oldham Athletic and Rochdale are now one level below the Football League in the National League, while Bury are playing in the lowly North West Counties League, two levels below Frome Town. Going the other way, Salford are now in League Two while Stockport County are now back in League One after playing as low as the National League South in 2013/14, just one division higher than Frome Town.

Ah, Frome Town. On this day, I solemnly wished that I could be in two places at the same time. While I was two hundred miles north of Frome in Manchester, my home-town team were playing fancied Gloucester City in our first home game in more than three weeks. At half-time, I learned that it was 0-0.

My route took me from Oldham on the A62 and through Failsworth and close to United’s original home in Newton Heath. I made it to the Etihad where PD and Parky made a quick exit at a red light outside the away end. I was parked up at my usual place near The Grove pub – it memorably smelled of bleach in May 2023 – at 4.50pm.

That, I think everyone will agree, was perfect timing.

Once parked, I quickly checked the score at Badgers Hill.

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

I donned my warm Moncler jacket and slapped my black Frome Town baseball cap on my bonce and walked off in the cold along Ashton New Road to the waiting stadium.

I was inside the middle tier – block 214, three seats from the City fans, get ready for some tiresome banter – at 5.15pm.

My first-ever visit to Manchester took place in October 1984 when I visited a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly, and I briefly described this earlier this season. On that day, City played a Second Division home game against Oxford United in front of a very creditable 24,755 and won 1-0. I remember trying to spot the Maine Road floodlights as we travelled into town on the train. I was undoubtedly on the lookout, too, for the subtle differences between London and Manchester casual trends as we darted around the city centre. I definitely remembering spotting flared cords, flared jeans, and the seminal “Hurley’s” shop near Piccadilly.

Incidentally, just for the record :

City’s home average that season in Division Two was 24,206.

Chelsea’s average that season in Division One was 23,065.

My diary from that day mentioned us visiting a city centre pub called “The Salisbury” – I have the very feintest memory – but I have since decided that I would love to go back, as it looks an absolutely cracking boozer, right under the train tracks near Oxford Road station. Maybe next season.

Back to 2025, and I was inside just in time to see some white smoke drifting up from in front of the stand to our right. There had obviously been some sort of pre-match fanfare. The City team was being shown on the TV screens.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

There was time for a little Manchester-themed music. Typically, this featured Oasis, but also James, who I had not knowingly remembered being featured at City before. I wondered if there was a yearly meeting in a city centre hotel featuring the media team of Manchester’s two main clubs, and an NFL-style draft of the coming season’s playlists.

United : “Well, you can have Oasis, as per. And the High Flying Birds.”

City. “Mint. You can have Stone Roses. It’s our turn for The Smiths this season, Marr is more a blue than Moz is a red anyway.”

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

City : “Oh, that’s hard to take. OK. We’ll have James.”

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

City : “Thought Russell Watson was more your style.”

What an over-the-top pre-match show. The stadium lights dimmed, flashing spotlights zoomed around the stands. I found it all too much. What will this shite be like in twenty years’ time for God’s sake?

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

There was an odd operatic-version of “Blue Moon.”

Oh boy.

It wasn’t like this in Moss Side in 1984/85 I am sure.

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

The images of three City players who have recently passed away were shown on the screens.

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

The last man, the player then manager Book, was described in revered tones and a nice banner was draped from a top balcony. The announcer called him “Stick” which was new to me. In Frome, two-and-a-half hours earlier, there had been a minute’s silence in memory of the same man.

I remembered the lovely and respectful way that City remembered Gianluca Vialli two seasons ago.

Despite the awful kick-off time, the three-thousand Chelsea fans were in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. My mate David, the freelance photographer, was spotted in a pit in front of the away fans.

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

There was an early City attack on the goal down below us, but on two minutes, it was Nicolas Jackson causing problems in the City half. There was rather rustic clearance from Trevoh Chalobah and Jackson chased the high ball, putting pressure on the new City defender Abdukodir Khusanov. His headed pass back to Ederson did not have the legs, and Jackson picked up the ball and flicked it to his right where Noni Madueke was level with his run. There was a simple tap in.

The Chelsea away contingent, in three tiers, erupted, and Madueke raced away and slid to his knees in front of the disconsolate City support.

After my head stopped spinning, I did my best to capture the moment.

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

However, I suspect that I wasn’t the only person thinking “we’ve scored too soon, here.”

After the tap in against Wolves, Madueke will not score two easier back-to-back goals in his career. We continued our bright start and there was a free-kick from Reece James. On nine minutes, Cole Palmer was put through into acres of space after excellent play by Chalobah. He raced on, but just as we were expecting a trademark ice-cold finish from his wand of a left foot, he remarkably played the ball to Jackson. Critically, this pass was overhit and Jackson struggled to catch up with the pace of the pass. The chance to shoot had gone, and although we kept possession, the follow-up shot from Jadon Sancho was blocked by Khusanov.

Bollocks.

A 2-0 lead on nine minutes would have been a formidable position to find ourselves.

Chalobah, the player of the game thus far, was able to block a shot on goal, and we then watched as that annoying little irritant Phil Foden smacked a shot against Robert Sanchez’ left post.

But then City, energised by a couple of breaks, grew into the game and the marauding runs of Josko Gvardiol caught the eye. After drifting past Madueke far too easily, the Croatian blasted over.

After Chelsea controlling the first fifteen minutes, City effectively dominated the remaining thirty minutes of the first period. Our midfield lost its bite, the wide players did not support the defenders, it all went downhill, like us dropping down from Saddleworth earlier.

Sigh.

The noise from both sets of fans wasn’t great. It is always difficult for us to get anything going as we are split over the three tiers. There were occasional barbs aimed at City.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Jackson was through on goal, but the shot was saved, and the linesman’s flag was raised anyway. City had a goal chalked off for offside.

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

“If City don’t equalise this half, it will be a miracle.”

Lo and behold, on forty-two minutes, a long ball out of defence set up a chance for Matheus Nunes as he beat off a challenge from Marc Cucurella. His shot was blocked by Sanchez, but the ball ran nicely to Gvardiol who tucked it in from an angle down below us.

Bollocks.

The home support just yards away turned it on. They were looking into us and were hoping for a reaction. I just turned away.

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

The half-time period was spent with hands in pockets, keeping warm, trying to muster up some hope from somewhere.

The second half, then. Do I have to?

Initially, Chelsea managed to create a few half-chances but never really looked like scoring. On more than one occasion, I felt myself wanting to see a niggly and obstreperous Diego Costa leading our line rather than the flimsy Jackson.

In the second half at City, that far half of the pitch always looks so huge, so full of space, and it always scares me to death. We were defending high and always seemed at risk.

I was surprised that we managed to create, somehow, some half-chances, but the City goal was not really under threat.

Erling Haaland was having a typically odd game; never too involved but always a threat. He’s like a stick insect on steroids, a powdered up praying mantis, a bundle of arms and legs.

On sixty-one minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson and then managed to hide for the rest of the match.

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

On sixty-eight minutes, Ederson went long and aimed a punt at the marauding Haaland. He met the ball, with Chalobah breathing down his neck, and managed to get a head on it. He spun Chalobah in the inside-right channel – all that bloody space – but as he sped away, we saw the worrying presence of the orange peril, Sanchez, racing out, changing his tack, and looking like a fireman who had been called out to the wrong fire.

Quite simply, this was not going to end well. We could all see it. To be fair to Chalobah, he had forced Haaland quite wide, but Haaland was no fool. He came inside just as Chalobah slipped. Sanchez was back-peddling and readjusting at the same time, going in nine directions at once, and a vain leap was never going to stop Haaland’s perfectly curled lob into an empty goal.

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

Sanchez, eh? For all of his decent saves and blocks, he is not good enough.

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

The one thing that really annoys me is his really casual and lackadaisical approach to everything he does. He never seems to be tuned in, to be in step with others, to be fully aware of the situation at hand. He never seems to be ready to play the ball out. He is so slow. He doesn’t inspire confidence in fans nor players alike.

At City, he had his own low point.

I know our job as supporters is to support, but it’s fucking hard.

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

On eighty-seven minutes, another Ederson long ball, this time to the substitute Kevin De Bruyne. He flicked it on towards the familiar pairing of Haaland and Chalobah. It was Haaland who got a touch, square to Foden. It was at this point that I took my eyes off the play and looked deep into the night above the stadium. I brought my gaze back to the game, and Foden slotted past Sanchez.

City 3 Chelsea 1.

PRE

MATCH

Tales From A Must-Win Game

Posted on January 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 20 January 2025.

I said it. You said it. Even educated fleas said it.

“This is a must-win” game.

And it was. With just three points out of fifteen in our previous five league games, things were starting to slip for Chelsea Football Club. Back in August, at our first away game of the season, we walloped Wolverhampton Wanderers 6-2, and they were currently mired in the bottom reaches of the table, having shown little spirit nor substance in the following twenty games since then. So, a home game with Wolves? We had to win this one.

This was a Monday night match, an 8pm kick-off, and thus was a familiar drive up to HQ. I collected PD and LP at 2pm. I dropped them off in deepest Fulham at 4.30pm. On the way to London, I was able, at last, to talk to them both about a Frome Town game.

My hometown team’s first match in three weeks had taken place on the previous Saturday at Winchester City and this was my first Frome game since an evening in Bath in the middle of December. Despite going one goal down at Winchester, Frome immediately countered with a fine strike from Rex Mannings. Not long after, Zak Drew touched home a flick-on from Archie Ferris at a corner to give the away team a 2-1 lead. Despite coming under severe pressure during the second half, another neat strike from Joe O’Laughlin gave Frome our fourth win out of five games in the league. Despite still being stuck in the relegation zone, the improvements over the past five weeks have been sensational. At last, there is hope in the Frome ranks.

On the way up to my usual parking spot on Charleville Road, the sky was tinted with a pink glow, and I noted that several friends were posting shots of the sunset on “Facebook” from around London. On this day, Blue Monday – the most depressing day of the year apparently, not a good sign ahead of the game – at least Mother Nature was trying to keep our spirits up. I caught the tube at West Kensington, and there was a stop for some food at Earl’s Court and a first visit to “Zizzi.”

I checked to see if there were many away fans at “The Courtfield” outside the tube station at Earl’s Court, but I saw few. It is likely that the vicinity might well have been crawling with away fans just over forty years ago.

On Saturday 19 January 1985, Chelsea were to host Arsenal in a repeat of the season’s opener in August. I was to attend from my home in Stoke. However, there had been a mighty cold snap leading up to this game, and so on the day before I ‘phoned Chelsea to gauge the likelihood of the game taking place. The message from HQ was unless there was “adverse weather” overnight, the game would take place on the Saturday but at the earlier time of 2pm.

On the Saturday morning, I ‘phoned Chelsea again – at 8.30am – from a public call box outside Stoke City’s Victoria Ground and the game was on.

I caught the 9.20am train down from Stoke. My diary tells me that the fare had increased to £9.10. I quickly made my way over to Fulham Broadway and I bought a “Benches” ticket for £4. I had quite forgotten that tickets were needed for a few games in the “Benches” in 1984/85. I was in the ground early and was eventually joined by the usual crew.

From the left : me, Alan, Richard, Dave, Paul, Glenn, Glenn’s mate (who he had met on the train from Frome – possibly Swan from Radstock), Leggo and Mark.

My diary mentions “no fighting at all.”

This game gave me my first sighting of Charlie Nicholas, who had missed the game at Highbury. The pitch was terrible; mud everywhere, the pitch heavily sanded, strands of straw all over the surface. As was often the case in that era, the match was shown live on Scandinavian TV, and there were dozens of odd-sounding advertisement boards in evidence everywhere.

It wasn’t a great match. Arsenal’s Tony Woodcock missed a couple of good chances in the first half, and David Speedie fluffed a one-on-one in the second period. The visitors went ahead in the seventy-fifth minute when Kenny Sansom sent over a cross for Paul Mariner to head home in front of the Arsenal hordes on the north terrace. Chelsea went to pieces for a while. Bizarrely, the rest of the lads left early, leaving just Glenn and me watching the last remaining minutes. However, I have a distinct feeling that they all left early to queue up for FA Cup replay tickets – the away tie at Wigan Athletic – after the game. In the last minute of the match, a deep free kick from Colin Lee was headed on by Joe McLaughlin, Kerry Dixon played the ball on to Speedie and with a deft flick, the ball was lobbed over John Lukic.

Well, the place erupted. Glenn and I danced around like fools in the wide gangway behind the back row of the wooden benches – the wildest celebration for ages – and loa-and-behold Alan and Paul sprinted back to join us. Great times.

The gate that day in 1985 was 34,752 and Arsenal had, of course, the whole end with maybe 7,000 fans, around the same as West Ham in September. I remember how bitterly cold it was, but I remember the joyous victory jig with Glenn, Alan and Paul to this day.

On the walk back to West Kensington, I bumped into Andy from Trowbridge who was looking at some designer gear in a shop window on the North End Road. Throughout that season, as Andy had in fact predicted on the train to Highbury back in August, there had been a seismic shift in terrace fashions, less and less lurid sportswear, more and more expensive pullovers in neutral colours, less pale blue jeans, more mid-blue and dark blue jeans – Hard Core jeans specifically – and more black leather jackets. Less Fila, Tacchini and Ellese, more Burberry, Aquascutum and Armani.

Forty years later, in 2025, it has all gone mainstream, and the thrill has largely disappeared. Occasionally, though – very occasionally – I find myself checking out the attire of a football fancier and I think to myself :

“Yep. Fair play. He’s got that right.”

I caught the tube from Earl’s Court down to Putney Bridge and had the briefest of stays – thirty minutes – with PD, LP and Salisbury Steve at “The Eight Bells.” We started to discuss plans for the upcoming trip to Manchester City at the weekend just as The Smiths appeared on the pub jukebox. How 1985.

Back at Stamford Bridge, I was inside at 7.30pm with half-an-hour to spare. Unfortunately, Clive and Alan were out injured and so it was just PD and me in “The Sleepy.”

Unlike Bournemouth, Wolves brought the full three thousand.

I again noted that an area down below us, adjacent to the pitch, was cordoned off by rope and around twenty or so corporate guests (I can’t call them supporters, sorry) were watching the Chelsea players carry out their shuttle runs. They were then walked across the pitch, past the centre-circle (what utter sacrilege) and into their expensive seats behind the Chelsea bench.

JD and I looked on disapprovingly.

“I guess that is what you get when you sit in ‘The Dug Out Club’ these days.”

“The game’s gone.”

I returned to my seat, which afforded me a view ten times better than those low down in the East Lower.

Our team?

The big news was the return of Trevoh Chalobah from his load at Selhurst Park and Captain Reece was starting too. Enzo Fernandez was out injured, but Cole Palmer was thought fit enough to start.

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

There was the usual light show, but thankfully no fireworks on this occasion.

I must admit that I liked the look of the Wolves all-gold kit.

I guessed that the Wolves skipper won the toss because Chelsea attacked the Northern end in the first half, the same as against Arsenal in 1985.

It was all go in the first thirty seconds of the game.

Cole Palmer kicked-off straight back to Robert Sanchez and the ball was quickly played out to Pedro Neto who crossed inside. There was a defensive header behind and a Reece James corner on the far side. A Trevoh Chalobah header moved the ball on with Noni Madueki lurking behind the Wolves defenders Wilson, Keppel and Betty, but a volley went wide of the far post.

After five minutes, there was widespread applause as a superbly executed sliding tackle from Chalobah halted a Wolves break, one on one.

There seemed to be a lot more boisterousness from the crowd from the off and I really wondered if the extra thirty minutes in the pub on this evening of football was the reason why the volume was up on the Bournemouth game.

Chelsea had begun strongly and were creating a fair few chances in the first quarter of an hour. Noni Madueke set up Cole Palmer, but a shot went wide. Madueke, Dewsbury-Hall, Palmer again, and James all had efforts on goal.

It was a really decent start.

On sixteen minutes, the ball was played to Palmer, twenty-five yards out and he calmly caressed the ball as he weighed up options, touching the ball forward. We have been so used to Palmer stroking the ball nonchalantly into the corners of the goal – if he was a baseball pitcher, commentators would say he was “painting the corners of the strike zone” – that I was quite shocked when his eventual shot was turned past the post by Sa in the Wolves’ goal.

On eighteen minutes, Sa received treatment on the pitch for a knock, and the rest of the players received a drinks break in front of “The Dug Out Club” in the East Lower.

With it being a cold night, I wondered if it was a soup break.

“Right lads, I’ve got tomato, oxtail, cream of mushroom, Mulligatawny, leek and potato.”

“Any croutons.”

“You and your croutons, Trevoh. No. I keep telling you, choking hazard.”

The game continued.

There was a typical example of awful distribution from Robert Sanchez, and how we howled.

There was a typical example of a fine forceful run followed by a heavy touch from Nicolas Jackson, and how we howled.

Then, an errant Wolves header from Matt Doherty but the Wolves ‘keeper just about recovered before Pedro Neto could pounce, and how we howled with laughter.

From the resulting corner, the ball fell nicely to James who took a swipe at goal despite the presence of virtually the entire Wolves team blocking his sight of goal. There was a typical deflection, and the ball ran on to a Chelsea player, who smacked the ball home.

However, I did not celebrate as I thought the scorer, plus maybe two more Chelsea attackers, were in an offside position. Indeed, the linesman’s flag went up.

Not many around us in “The Sleepy” expected a goal.

“Offside by a mile.”

But there was a VAR call, and a long wait, a very long wait.

Goal.

I could hardly believe it.

Tosin ran towards the Matthew Harding Lower.

I snapped.

But I could not believe it.

In Alan’s absence, I loved the fact that two Chelsea mates in Texas, of all places, texted me the rallying-call.

Robin, in Houston : “THTCAUN.”

Charles, in Dallas : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in Fulham : “COMLD.”

Lovely stuff.

Sadly, we then drifted quite considerably. Wolves, for the first real time, came into the game.

PD was more succinct : “since the goal we been shit.”

Sanchez looked shaky again. I came up with a phrase that just about sums him up.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez”.

Spin that wheel, mate, we never know what you are going to do next.

There were defensive blocks at timely interventions, but Wolves had the best of the closing period of the half. In almost the last of the six minutes of injury-time, it all went pear-shaped. A corner from in front of the away fans, a jump from Sanchez at the near post, but a fumble and the ball was dropped.

Doherty pushed it home.

Ugh.

“Spin that wheel, Sanchez.”

There were boos at half-time, which I never like to hear.

It was time for some gallows humour. I joked with a few folk nearby that we got a head start on having a crap second-half by starting it in the first.

We attacked The Shed in the second-half of course; it never seems right these days.

Of course our “ends” have since flipped but I can’t often remember us often attacking The Shed in the first-half in pre-1995 days.

Sanchez was soon annoying me again. A simple throw out to Marc Cucurella went behind him, and I howled once more.

As the game got going again, I spotted how much space Madueke was enjoying out on our right and on three occasions in what seemed like a few seconds, Palmer reached him with expansive passes. Noni then flattered to deceive – that phrase only used for football – and went to pieces, with heavy control, poor passing, weak finishing.

However, spotting the team needed support, parts of the Matthew Harding raised their game.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

There was yet another incisive Palmer to Madueke pass, but it was again wasted.

Thankfully, on the hour, cometh the hour, cometh the man, and that man was Cucurella. A cute cross from Madueke, at last, was flicked on by the improving and unmarked Dewsbury-Hall, and it fell at the feet of an also unmarked Cucurella. There was time for a softening touch in his, er, midriff, before he smashed the ball into the corner of the goal.

A scream from me, a slide from him.

GET IN.

Just after, the poor Neto was replaced by Jadon Sancho.

Five minutes after our second goal, Jackson won a free kick down by the Wolves support. Palmer floated the ball over towards the far post where Chalobah rose well to head the ball goalwards. Through a crowd of bodies, I semi-saw the ball headed in by another Chelsea player. The much-maligned Madueke raced away, slid to his knees, while I snapped away.

Chelsea had faltered but had dug in and improved. Fair play to the team on this occasion.

There were some positives. Both Chalobah and James were excelling; fine performances from them. In fact, in addition to the returning Trevoh taking Conor Gallagher’s shirt number, he had also inherited his specific chant too.

Welcome back, Trev.

Moises Caicedo was steady and solid.

Thankfully, Wolves faded as we improved.

Palmer – who had been fouled and was looking slightly off-colour – played Jackson through, and it looked offside to me, but he took the chance well. Alas, I was right for once. No goal.

Some substitutions.

77 minutes :

Axel Disasi for James, a warm ovation.

Malo Gusto for Dewsbury-Hall.

84 minutes :

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Madueke, a league debut.

Wolves kept going and tested us with a couple of late efforts, but we easily withstood them. There was even a fine save and a fine block by Sanchez from Matheus Cunha and Jorgen Strand Larsen.

At last, we had eked out our first league win in six games, and we rose again to fourth in the table.

Next up, a visit to the team that are – for once, the first time in a blue moon – one place below us.

See you there

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 1985

Tales From A Second-Half Fade

Posted on January 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 14 January 2025.

After the 3pm kick-off on the previous Saturday, I felt rather off-kilter as I made my way up to London with PD and Parky for a Tuesday evening game at home to Bournemouth. There is always a nice and natural rhythm to a run of Saturday games and one week seems to me like a perfect rest period for players and fans alike. After a week of inactivity – no Chelsea – most fans are chomping at the bit for the next instalment.

However, after a rest of just two days, the Sunday and Monday, we were at it again.

I had to chuckle after I had just after picked up the lads in Melksham and Parky, sitting at ease in the back seat, had commented “it’s tiring work, these midweek games” without a hint of irony.

Before setting off from Melksham, the football world had received the sad news that the former Manchester City player and manager Tony Book had passed away at the age of ninety. I would not normally mention things such as this, but Tony Book once played for Frome Town for a short while at the start of his career, which later took him to Bath City and Plymouth Argyle before joining City at the age of thirty. My father always told me as a youngster that Tony Book came from Peasedown, no more than eight miles from my home village, but it would appear that his home city was indeed Bath, but he played his first football for Peasedown Miners. There was a trial at Chelsea in his early years.

Tony Book was undoubtedly Frome Town’s most famous ex-player.

RIP.

As I stopped for fuel at Membury Services, I spotted that my mate Clive posed a question to me via a WhatsApp message.

“Who was the first British goalkeeper to win the European Cup with two separate teams?”

As I drove off, I had an idea, a strong idea, of who this might be. As I was driving, I asked PD to message Clive my answer.

I was pleased that I was correct.

Anyone have any ideas?

At around 4.30pm, I dropped the lads off along the Fulham High Street and they made their way to “The Eight bells.” Our pre-match activities were to differ on this occasion. I shot up to Charleville Road, just off the North End Road, to park up. I dived into an Italian restaurant and treated myself, but although the food was tasty, the portion sizes were miniscule and the prices expensive. Not even the charms of the two Italian sisters who work there might entice me back.

I shot off down to the re-opened “Broadway Bar & Grill” – formerly The Kings Arms – and met up with Mehul, originally from India, but now living in Berlin via a few years in Detroit. I last met up with him at Christmas 2019 on a boozy pub-crawl around Fulham. He was with his friend Pete, originally from near Swindon, and now living in Berlin too.

This was Pete’s first top-flight football match since Swindon Town’s lone season in the Premier League in 1993/94. Pete explained how Glenn Hoddle, who jumped ship to manage Chelsea after winning promotion for the Robins in 1993, is still referred to as “Judas” in Swindon circles. I can readily remember a Swindon Town supporter who worked as a fitter alongside me in a factory in Trowbridge, who had a snarling expression at the best of times, who seemed to hold me personally responsible for Hoddle’s deflection from his local team. Football, eh?

I explained to them both how Glenn Hoddle played an absolutely pivotal role in the upsurge in Chelsea’s fortunes over the past thirty or so years. Having seen Swindon’s entertaining football during the 1992/93 season on TV and at one game against Newcastle United, I can certainly remember being so thrilled to hear that he was to join us, despite his Tottenham past.

I made it to my seat at 1905, as good a time as any.

I noticed that Bournemouth did not take their full 3,000 allocation. It looked like the lesser 2,200 which resulted in a slightly different configuration to the away section.

The starting eleven caused a slight stir with Moises Caicedo again starting at right-back, but with Reece James and Malo Gusto available but on the bench. I was surprised that the long-term injured Romeo Lavia was the only player retained from the Morecambe game on Saturday. Would he be able to manage two games in four days?

Anyway, Enzo Maresca is the manager, he has the badges, while I will admit that I am a tactical moron.

This was the line-up :

Sanchez

Caicedo – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I had said to various friends in the pre-match chitter-chatter that although three points were vitally important, it was just as imperative to play some good football, to see our confidence return, to “get back on the treadmill.”

The game began, and nobody could complain about our opening. There was an early Enzo miss from close in during the first few seconds, and on six minutes Cole Palmer had a free-kick saved by the Bournemouth ‘keeper Mark Travers. On nine minutes, there was a delicate lob from Palmer that drifted just past the frame of the goal. All of this was a pre-amble to a lovely piece of football on thirteen minutes.

The ball was pushed into Nicolas Jackson by Enzo, and despite being surrounded by three Bournemouth defenders – Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew – Nico managed to hold on to the ball with great strength and wriggle out of a tight space with the ball. There was a finely gauged pass to Palmer, who had made a run past three more Bournemouth defenders – Cuthburt, Dibble, Grub – to perfection. With the ‘keeper in front of him, just one man to beat now, he paused slightly, effectively a dummy, and as the ‘keeper fell to one side, Palmer cooly slotted the ball to the other side and into the net.

There were joyous celebrations all around Stamford Bridge.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I likened the cool finish to Jimmy Greaves. Alan likened it to George Best.

CFC 1 AFCB 0.

On twenty minutes, the away team enjoyed a little more of the ball, but we still looked in control. We seemed more tenacious in midfield than in previous games.

On twenty-eight minutes, Enzo showed some lovely close skill and forced a low save from Travers to his right from twenty yards out.

On thirty-two minutes, all eyes were on Noni Madueke who was faced with the prospect of having to beat two Bournemouth defenders. I caught on film his tight control, his acceleration, his changing body shape as he miraculously sped clear. His final decision – a shot and not a pass – was his downfall. It smacked the near post. If only.

On thirty-seven minutes, yet another piece of shambolic play from Robert Sanchez gifted the away team with their first real chance of the first period. He played the ball straight to Justin Kluivert – a pass intended for Palmer – and after a little pinball in the Chelsea penalty area, it was the same Bournemouth player who hit the base of the left-hand post. The ball was hacked away by Moises Caicedo down below us and again Jackson did ever so well to wrestle himself from a physical challenge, turn and sprint away. This was gorgeous football. Alas, his strike at goal hit the base of the left-hand post at the other end of the ground and it stayed 1-0.

On thirty-eight minutes, a deep curler from out on the right wing by Palmer evaded everyone apart from the leap of Jackson. His downward header was superbly parried by Travers, and the bouncing rebound was slashed wide by Jackson again.

Snot.

It was a real curate’s egg of a first-half. Good – no great – in parts, but with still an annoying number of wayward passes. We created way more chances than Bournemouth – as evidenced by the predominance of the name of Travers thus far – but it stayed, worryingly at 1-0.

The noise in the stadium was truly terrible too.

But you knew that.

I joked with Frank who sits behind me that “we can’t bring Cucarella on to liven things up because the fucker is already on.”

Ho hum.

The second half began, and we seemed to be sleep-walking during the opening moments which was a big worry. Three minutes into the half, the otherwise impressive Enzo gave a loose pass to Romeo Lavia, and it was snapped up. The ball was played to Antoine Semenyo and as he raced away. As he set himself to shoot, Caicedo bundled him over. It was a penalty all day long.

Kluivert smashed it high into the goal.

CFC 1 AFCB 1.

I loved the crowd’s reaction, immediately after the goal.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

The loudest of the night.

There was a bonkers foul by Lavia just after, and I was fuming. Just when we needed leaders to calm things down and to steady the ship, we gave away a cheap free kick. Thankfully it came to nothing.

I didn’t see the foul on Cucarella – the hair pull, give me strength – and I only saw the quite pathetic rolling around by Cucarella, no doubt screaming in agony. There was confusion as VAR got involved, players hounded the referee on the touchline, the referee seemed the centre of attention again.

A yellow, no red.

Pah.

On fifty-six minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia, with Caicedo trotting inside alongside Enzo.

On fifty-seven, a solid crunch of a tackle from Enzo, and the ball fell to Jackson, but that man Travers was able to save.

The away team grew in confidence. They were a well-trained unit that broke well. I said to Alan “we’ll do well to draw this.”

A Bournemouth corner resulted in a fine block by Sanchez from a shot by Brooks.

Just as I was thinking something along the lines of “well maybe if they attack us, we can exploit the space they leave behind them”, a rapid break down the inside-left channel cut us open and Semenyo, danced past Josh Acheampong way too easily and slashed the ball high past Sanchez with his left foot.

CFC 1 AFCB 2.

Fackinell.

Sixty-eight minutes had passed.

There was an immediate substitution. Although he had impressed against Crystal Palace, Josh had struggled here. He was replaced by Tosin.

A shot from Jackson was blocked by either Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthburt Dibble or Grub, I forget who.

With a quarter of an hour to go, I noted that there was a bit more fervour from the home support, thank heavens.

But Bournemouth still created two chances of their own with ten minutes to go, and our second-half fade, a trademark of late, was all too familiar.

On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution from Maresca.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Joao Felix for Caicedo.

There was a magnificent save from Travers, at full stretch, a header from Tosin from a Palmer free-kick.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

More than a trickle of fans had decided to leave.

Four minutes in, from virtually the same position as the previous free-kick six minutes earlier, Palmer and James stood over the ball. It was Reece’s turn. I snapped as he struck. The ball stayed low and miraculously bent its way around the wall and nestled into the goal.

The net rippled.

What a sight that is.

CFC 2 AFCB 2.

Reece wheeled away in ecstasy.

Phew.

In the ninety-ninth minute, Tosin headed wide. No last-minute madness this time. It stayed 2-2.

It was, alas, only our third point out of the last fifteen. And the really worrying thing is that these five games were against teams that we ought to be beating; Everton, Fulham, Ipswich, Crystal Palace, Bournemouth.

Oh well, on we go.

Next up is a home game on Monday against Wolverhampton Wanderers.

See you there.