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.

The answer?

Jimmy Rimmer.

Manchester United 1968.

Aston Villa 1982.

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Posted on May 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 19 May 2024.

This was turning into a very enjoyable end to the 2023/24 season. The last five days of it were packed full of Chelsea. On the Wednesday, we travelled down to Brighton and on the Sunday, there would be the final game against Bournemouth. But tucked into the middle, on the Friday, was a bonus day.

The Chelsea Foundation, who look after former players through the Chelsea Players Trust and oversee the club’s charities, education projects and Chelsea in the wider community, recently found out that we have been taking Ron Harris up to Stamford Bridge on match days since the autumn of 2021. As a gesture of thanks, they invited a gang of us up to the Cobham training centre. They gave us a range of dates to choose from, and it transpired that Friday 17 May was the best fit. You can just imagine our elation. I was lucky enough to visit Cobham way back in 2008 with a few friends from the UK and the US, but this would be a first visit for my match-day companions from the West of England; Glenn, PD and Parky. We went up in one car. In the other car, was the Harris family; Ron, his daughter Claire, her partner Dave, Ron’s son Mark and Mark’s young son Isaac. Joining us at Cobham was Gary Chivers, Ron’s match-day companion, who was with his young daughter.

We had an absolute blast on a perfect sunny day. We met academy chief Neil Bath, and a few of his staff. We chuckled when Ron introduced Paul to the academy hosts as “my minder.” You know you have made it in life when Chopper Harris calls you his minder.

The day started off in 1970. Let me explain. Recently, the youth teams of Chelsea and Leeds United met in a cup final, and there was a concern that the Leeds youngsters would be more “up for it” than the Chelsea lads. To rectify this, to illustrate the very real rivalry that exists between the two old enemies, the lads were shown footage of some of the tastier moments from the 1970 FA Cup Final Replay. We loved seeing the film, none more so than Ron, and there were many funny moments as we watched tackle after tackle, with legendary players clashing, a real blast from the past. It must have had the desired effect as Chelsea won the game 5-3. We saw footage of the youngsters’ match; there were some fine goals but some rugged tackles too, Leeds didn’t stand a chance.

In a surreal moment, we hopped into a fleet of little golf buggies and embarked on a tour of the huge complex, making sure that we didn’t crash into the players’ expensive cars. Not for the first time I found myself driving Lord Parky. We spotted the first team in a training session away to our right. The complex is massive. A full forty people are on the ground staff alone.

We spent a few moments with Cesc Fabregas who happened to be visiting the training ground. I told him that all four of us were at Burnley for his Chelsea debut in 2014 for “that pass” to Andre Schurrle. There was then a frantic period as the current first team squad made their way to the changing rooms. Each one, though, met with Ron Harris, and we tried our best to say a few words to as many as possible. Ron spent quite a while with Conor Gallagher and Cole Palmer. I took the usual smattering of photos. Nicolas Jackson was especially friendly. Loved his attitude. My big moment came when I tentatively approached Thiago Silva for him to sign a recent home programme; Tottenham, the great man on the cover. He took time to painstakingly sign in his unique way with his name, number and a flourish before handing the programme back to me.

“Obrigado.”

I was happy. Mission accomplished.

I must admit that Reece James looked a little sheepish after his sending-off against Brighton. We managed to spend an incredible five or six minutes with Mauricio Pochettino, who spoke easily and naturally with us as if we had known each other for ages. He talked about the development of the team, the way things have started to gel, and plans for the US Tour in the summer. He could not have been nicer. I loved the hug that he gave Ron Harris.

“We hope you are here next season, Conor.”

“So do I.”

We were treated to a lovely lunch in the same canteen as the academy players. PD tucked into a FAB ice-cream on the house, an image that will make me laugh for years.

Everyone that we met were so polite, so attentive, so personable and there was a cool and calm professionalism about the entire complex. We left on an absolute high, sure that the immediate future of our club was in good hands. I drove the boys home, almost not wanting the day to end. We stopped off for a couple of early-evening pints at a pub alongside the canal in Devizes. It was a fantastic end to a perfect day and it totally restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club.

Sunday – Munich Day – soon arrived and we were on our way to London at a ridiculously early time. Despite a 4pm kick-off, I was up at 5.30am to pick up PD, Ron and Parky by 7.30am. I dropped Ron off outside the main gates at about 9.45am and I was soon parked up. I spent a little time chatting to a few friends on the Fulham Road and at Stamford Bridge. I was quick to relay the positive vibes from Cobham. There was a quick and impromptu photo-call with Ron at the hotel with some friends of a friend from Dundee; their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge and they were boiling over with excitement.

On a day when Thiago Silva would be making his last-ever appearance in Chelsea colours, I made sure that I took a few photographs of his image on the wall by the West Stand forecourt.

Then, a tube down to Putney Bridge to meet the troops in the pub. Friends from near and far joined us, and I detected a happier atmosphere in the boozer than is always the case. We were, after all, chasing our fifth win a row, and the confirmation of European football in 2024/25.

The global scope of Chelsea’s support was well-represented.

Russ – Melbourne, Australia.

Brad and Sean – New York, US.

Richard and Matt – Edinburgh, Scotland.

Sara and Danny – Minneapolis, US.

Even and Roy – Oslo, Norway.

Kyden and Jacob – Tampa, US.

No drinks for me of course, but the lads were filling their boots. The laughter boomed around “The Eight Bells.” At around 3pm, we set off for the final time of this roller-coaster of a season.

A tube to Fulham Broadway, a walk up to the turnstiles, the sun out, where is there a better place on Earth?

Chats with a few folk who sit close by. Again, positive vibes. The end of season run-in was not as problematic as we had feared.

The team?

In order to accommodate Thiago Silva, Malo Gusto was unfortunately dropped. Mudryk was out after his injury at Brighton. He was the one player that we did not clock at Cobham.

Petrovic – Chalobah, Silva, Badiashile, Cucarella – Caicedo, Gallagher – Madueke, Palmer, Sterling – Jackson

The surprising thing was that there had been virtually no mention of the title race. Was Manchester City’s win against West Ham as straightforward as we were hoping? Only time would tell. However, the outside chance of Arsenal winning the title for the first time in twenty years was lurking in the back of my mind, and maybe others too. I think we made a pact with each other to keep silent. I also had a whimsical notion that Tottenham would do the ultimate “Spursy” thing and fall on their own sword at Sheffield United, thus giving us the chance to finish above them.

There were colourful displays at both ends of the pitch devoted to the captain for the day.

Thiago Emiliano da Silva.

The great man signed for us while we were ensconced at home under COVID, and I did not see him play for Chelsea in the flesh until the FA Cup Final in May 2021. Just a few weeks later, I remember watching out in Porto as he fell to the floor in the closing moments of the first-half. Inwardly, I shared his tears as he pulled his shirt up over his face before walking off. Thankfully, we scored just three minutes after and he would win his sole Champions League medal after all. Since then, he has been a colossus, a giant, a cool leader at the helm of an oft-troubled defence and team and club. We will miss him so much.

Anyway, the game began.

In the opening few moments, Stamford Bridge was a noisy cauldron in celebration of Thiago Silva. His standard two songs rang out and we all joined in.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

“He came from PSG.”

After all that had happened the previous week, I found it difficult to fully concentrate on the game that was being played out on the gorgeous green of Stamford Bridge. I felt a little tired, a little dazed. Was this one game too far for me?

This was my eighty-seventh game of the season.

Chelsea 51; for the first-time ever, I had not missed a single game.

Frome Town 35; my most-ever, beating last season’s twenty games, and an absolute belter of a season.

Exeter City 1; and quite easily the worst of the lot, my reward for going to a game in which I had zero interest.

We began brightly, and there was a shot from Nicolas Jackson and one from Cole Palmer. Both did not trouble the away ‘keeper Neto. The first was hit right at the ‘keeper, the second drifted past the far post. Raheem Sterling was buzzing around, and it was a nice reminder of how he can play if he is in the mood.

In the opening fifteen minutes, we had completely dominated possession, possibly at the 90% level. But in the stands the noise had been reduced to a whisper.

“Football in a library” sang the three-thousand Bournemouth supporters.

Yep, guilty as charged.

Sterling went down inside the box, but VAR adjudged it to be a clean challenge.

On seventeen minutes, Jackson poked the ball forward perfectly into space for the lively Sterling to chase. Neto was out early and cleared, but was under pressure from Conor Gallagher. The resulting swipe lacked direction. The ball reached our half, where it found Moises Caicedo. The midfielder pushed the ball forward, just over the half-way line, and thumped a high ball towards goal. With Neto scrambling back, and a spare Bournemouth defender chasing too, the ball perfectly nestled into the Shed End goal. I will be truthful, it looked a goal as soon as it left his foot.

GET IN.

I captured his jubilant run and leap. What a way to score his first Chelsea goal.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We heard that Manchester City were 1-0 up and then 2-0 up within twenty minutes.

“We’re gonna have a party…”

The away team attacked occasionally, but we didn’t seem in danger. I made sure that I took a few photos of Thiago Silva down below us.

The away fans were still moaning.

“1-0 and you still don’t sing.”

I was still struggling a little to get into the game and our players looked a little tired. Bournemouth seemed to improve as the first-half continued. A speculative long-range shot from Ryan Christie glanced the top of the bar, there was a block from Trevoh Chalobah, a save from Djordje Petrovic.

At the end of the first-half, we heard that Arsenal were losing at home to Everton and there was a sudden input of noise.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

But then the mood changed when it became City 2 West Ham 1 and Arsenal 1 Everton 1.

Please God, no.

At the break, we were relatively content. With just a point required to secure European football once more – out of the question for me and many others until very recently – we were on track.

On forty-eight minutes, the seemingly rejuvenated Sterling was put through in a wide position and danced his way down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and into the box.

“Go on, Raz.”

From a ridiculously tight angle he finished beautifully, although Neto will be annoyed at the ball going right between leg stump and off stump.

Barely thirty seconds later, Bournemouth scored when a shot from Enes Unal was deflected off the unlucky Benoit Badiashile and into the net. Could Cucarella have done better? His slight slip allowed Unal to come inside.

Bollocks.

The game drifted a little. At least there were no significant updates from the UAE Air Company Stadia.

On the hour – at last! – a loud “CAM ON CHOWLSEA” followed by an equally loud “Carefree.”

We then heard that City were 3-1 up and we could relax a little.

Mauricio Pochettino made three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Madueke.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Caicedo.

Christopher Nkunku for Sterling.

I captured the header from Nkunku, from a Palmer free-kick, that just missed the goal frame.

At the other end, Dominic Solanke – who was applauded by many as he came on as a substitute – really ought to have done better but his low shot went wide of the far post.

Chances came at both ends and the game became a lot closer than we had hoped. We created chances for Gusto and Nkunku. There was a fine low save from Petrovic up the other end.

Another substitution.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

Huge applause.

The lad from Manchester has been a revelation. He will be the main reason why I pay any attention to the European Championships in Germany later this summer.

Late on, substitute Casadei forced an error and the ball fortuitously fell to Gallagher who forced a decent save from that man Neto.

There was a header, from distance, a little similar to John Terry against Barcelona in 2005, from Thiago Silva and although we prayed for a perfect end to his Chelsea career, there was no Ricardo Carvalho on hand to spoil Neto’s view and the effort was ably saved.

Drat.

At the death, a lightning break from Bournemouth down their right caused added anxiety. The ball was played in to Dango Ouattara but Petrovic parried the low effort away. Christie was following up but a perfectly-timed scything tackle from Gallagher denied the chance. However, the ball bobbled out to Solanke who – thank God – blasted the ball over.

Alan and I looked at each other and gasped.

The added time came and went, and we had made it.

City champions, then Arsenal, then Liverpool, then Villa, then Tottenham, then us.

“We’re all going on a European tour.”

There was not too much time to wait for the farewell speech from Thiago Silva. He walked on to the pitch with his wife Belle and their two boys – a guard of honour from his team mates of course – and took a few moments to steady himself.

It is a mark of the man that virtually everybody had stayed behind for this. Often when there is a lap of honour at the end of a season such as this – no trophies – many drift off. But it again restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club to see so many supporters, evidently including many in the corporate areas such as West View, stay to witness his farewell speech.

There were ripples of applause throughout the speech and a big and booming finale greeted his closing words.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

What a man. What a player. What an athlete. What a professional.

These last four years have been as mad as they come, but his presence has been like a beacon for us Chelsea supporters.

Thiago – you will be missed.

We left the stadium. I popped around to collect Ron from outside the hotel, and we slowly walked back to the waiting car.

It had been a fine end to a testing season. We were all relishing the prospect of some European travels in the autumn – at least – in whatever competition we end up in. And we were all looking forward to, hopefully, a summer of stability, with thoughts of progression into 2024/25.

On a personal note, I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years.

Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.

I make no apology for dovetailing Frome’s games in with Chelsea’s games during this season. Hopefully the readership of this blog appreciates the contrasts and the extra narrative that it provides for my Chelsea rambles.

And thanks to everyone for keeping faith with me again this season. It’s a labour of love all this. It is part of my Chelsea routine. I take photos and I write. It’s what I do.

I am currently up to 1,952,777 words on here.

Next season, I will get past the two-million-word mark.

Fackinell.

As an aside, I have noticed a couple of things this season.

Firstly, there have been more and more “clicks” on the homepage, meaning that many of the good people who read these tales do not rely on Facebook links to access this website. I like that. It means they don’t need a prompt.

Secondly, despite these tales beginning life on the Chelsea In America site in 2008, there has been a continual reduction over time of viewers in the US.

In the first full year of CHELSEA/esque in 2013, the US comprised of 7,437 out of 16,895 total views. Yet so far in 2024, the US’ numbers are just 4,184 out of 26,010 total views.

2013 : 44%

2024 : 16%

But I am not worried. Viewing figures remain robust and healthy, with more and more from the UK with each passing season. That’s great. We are, after, all – despite the owners – a UK club.

Oh, the owners.

Do I have to?

These match reports always end on the day of the game; either at the final whistle, on the walk back to the car, on the drive home, or after watching “Match Of The Day.”

If there is anything that occurs the next day that requires comment, I shoe-horn it in to the next edition. But, as my next edition will not be for three months, I had best turn my attention to the events of Tuesday 21 May 2024.

I could write a lot. I could write a little. What to do?

It just struck me that it is something when 95% of opinions shared by Chelsea supporters on social media that evening backed Mauricio Pochettino, the former Tottenham manager, as opposed to backing the Chelsea board.

Yes, he did not rush to win us over, but I liked his view that he wanted to earn respect from us rather make some superficial “kiss the badge” statement or be pressurised into a sound bite. He was his own man and I kind of respected him for that. We told him at Cobham that we realised that it would take time this season. He got us into Europe. We reached one cup final. The last two months have generally been superb. The odd blip? Growing pains.

I leave with my “Facebook” post that evening.

“I feel so blessed to have been able to see a decent man go about his work last Friday. The clowns in charge of the club have left me confused and sad, angry yet helpless.

Good luck Mauricio, for a few fleeting moments it just felt right.”

Best wishes for a fine summer everyone. This football fancier will return in August with hopefully a tale or two to tell from Brazil featuring Thiago Silva.

Keep The Faith.

Cobham

The Eight Bells

Stamford Bridge

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth

Obrigado Thiago Silva

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

Posted on May 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 15 May 2024.

I swung into the car park of the “Horse & Groom” pub, on the A36 in Salisbury, at just after 3pm. Waiting for me was Salisbury Steve. Way back in August, I had popped into the very same pub before the two of us went off to watch his local non-league team, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, play a game against my local non-league team Frome Town. It was Frome’s first away league game of the 2023/24 season, and here we were, meeting up at the self-same pub ahead of Chelsea’s last away league game of 2023/24.

This was going to be yet another long day at work, on the road and in the stands. I was up at 4.15am and God knows what time I would return. PD and Parky had made their way to Melksham for 2pm and I quickly whisked them south-east to collect Steve. Unfortunately, road works between Southampton and Portsmouth and then road closures later meant that the three-hour trip to Brighton, or rather Lewes, ballooned to four hours. I pulled into one of the last remaining car park spaces at Lewes railway station at around 6.15pm. We usually drink in this lovely historic town before games at the Amex Stadium but we decided to head to the ground. On the five-minute journey in we spoke with some locals about the news that Premier League clubs were to vote on binning VAR.

I’ll say only this. From my experience, 99.9% of match-going fans in the UK want to see it gone.

I spent a little time outside the stadium, taking it all in, taking some photos, chatting to a few Chelsea friends. Brighton’s stadium is a decent arena, and a visit there is quite unlike any other in the top flight. This would be my seventh visit, and we are yet to experience a pre-match in Brighton itself. The Lewes pre-match is as good as any in the Premier League, and I do like the Brighton stadium. It is roomy and pleasant with enough quirky features to keep it away from the “soul-less modern bowl” epithet of modern football connoisseurs. The greenery of the South Downs was visible beyond the west stand and there was a cloudless blue sky above. I like it how seagulls fly and soar above the stadium, as if they are trained specifically for match days. Thankfully, there are no lions at Millwall, nor tigers at Hull City.

I spoke to Allie and Nick, two Chelsea stalwarts who never miss any games, and I soon stopped moaning about the four-hour journey in. Their car had broken down on the outskirts of Brighton and would be sitting overnight in a local garage. At least they had found a lift back to The Smoke.

This would be my third successive season of not missing a Chelsea away league game. God willing, should I manage Bournemouth on Sunday, it will be my first-ever season of not missing a single first team game.

I spotted the Brighton Memorial Garden for the first time – a nice feature – and the gentle rise of the sloped pathway allowed me to take a few more photos. I had to laugh that the home club chose to feature a photo of an old team group posing with comedian Norman Wisdom above the main entrance. A football club must have a lot of self-confidence in itself to be OK with an image like that. I can’t imagine Ken Dodd at Anfield nor Bernard Manning at City.

It was odd to see a player profile of Bruno Saltor on a large poster opposite the main stand. How many Chelsea fans had completely forgotten him? Yes, me too.

I was soon inside the roomy away concourse. What a nice change not to be pressed together like sardines, unlike at other new builds like Arsenal and Tottenham. The boys had bought me a lager; my first pint on a “driving match day” of the season. I guess I needed to celebrate another complete away record somehow. It was lovely to bump into Whitey, who I had not seen at Chelsea for years and years. We reminisced about Juventus away in 2009; fifteen bloody years ago. Shudder.

I made my way into the roomy away end. Waiting to chat as I reached row D was Ross. I had remembered that he had posted on “Facebook” in the morning that he was on his way down to the game with Richard West, aka “Mr. C.” from The Shamen, a band from the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties. I had a brief thought of meeting him for the first time even though we are friends on “Facebook”. Lo and behold, it worked out that they would be in the adjacent two seats. Excellent. We said our hellos and readied ourselves for the evening’s entertainment.

Unfortunately, yet again at The Amex, my seat was right behind the goal nets. I knew that my camera would struggle to get many good photos on this particular night. I made sure I took some of the setting; the stands, the angles, the setting sun.

Kick-off approached.

So, here we were. We had experienced a demanding season with a new manager, new players, an odd ownership group, a new transfer strategy. For the most part it has been a struggle. Supporters have openly expressed how distanced they feel from the players. Yet over the past two months there has been a marked improvement – minus that painful blip at Arsenal – and we were now in touching distance of European football next season. Until very recently I was convinced that we would finish tenth and would be without European football – those beautiful away trips – for a second successive season.

We faced two games against the beach towns of Brighton and Bournemouth. The south coast of England had played a big part in my travels thus far this season; I had watched Frome at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate and Chelsea at Bournemouth. It felt just right to be ending my away trips in Sussex by the sea.

Our team?

There was one change from the tight win at Forest; Malo Gusto replaced Trevoh Chalobah at right-back, thus meaning that he was shunted inside at the expense of Thiago Silva.

Petrovic – Gusto, Chalobah, Badiashile, Cucarella – Gallagher, Caicedo – Madueke, Palmer, Mydruk – Jackson

In the Brighton team were former blues Billy Gilmour and Tariq Lamptey.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked-off. We were in that very dark navy. I just hoped the players could pick each other out. I was struggling.

Being so low down, I struggled as we attacked the far goal and it took me a while to get into the game. Thankfully, Chelsea were involved from the kick-off and the speed of Noni Madueke on the right caused a flutter in the Brighton ranks. However, young Lamptey on the Brighton right started the game equally well and the home team threatened us too.

The former Brighton duo of Marc Cucarella and Moises Caicedo – now blonde – were boo’d relentlessly from the off and I found it all a bit boring and boorish.

Cucarella went sprawling in the box and the referee pointed at the spot. My first reaction was that it looked a little soft. After a lengthy VAR review, involving the referee checking the pitch side monitor, the decision was reversed. The home crowd roared and it was the noisiest they had been all evening.

There was a leap and a header from a Brighton player right in front of us, but then the excellent Malo Gusto sent a dipping shot in on goal but the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen was able to finger-tip it over.

On thirty-four minutes, we had stretched Brighton a little and the ball was played out to Cucarella. He did well to spot a runner and dig out a cross. There was contact, a stooping header, and the ball flew up and over Verbruggen into the goal.

GET IN.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 1.

The players raced off to celebrate and I snapped away, to the left of the nets. I had not spotted who the scorer was, but I knew soon enough.

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

Beautiful stuff.

The Chelsea end were in a sudden celebratory mood.

“We’re all going on a European tour, a European tour, a European tour.”

We pushed forward and a shot from Palmer was cleared. Then, a nod-in from Jackson but he was flagged offside.

I didn’t see the incident that left Mykhailo Mudryk sprawled on the floor for several worrying minutes. For a while he was motionless. Eventually, he was substituted by Christopher Nkunku.

With nine minutes of added time signalled, we traded chances. There was another cross from the left, but Nicolas Jackson shinned it over. Then, a cross from Lamptey and Joao Pedro leapt but struck a header against the bar.

It was 1-0 to the visitors at the break.

It had been a first-half in which both sides had enjoyed spells of domination but Chelsea shaded it. In the second-half, I hoped for more of the same, but also more photos. I had hardly taken any in the first period.

So, the game re-started with “us attacking us” and my camera was primed.

It was an open game and chances continued to be traded. Nkunku looked fresh and nimble, and soon flashed a shot wide from an angle. We looked dangerous on the counter-attack, and our supporters shouted words of encouragement as we attacked the open spaces. Brighton were causing more of a problem to us in the second-half and there were several near misses. The home crowd had been surprisingly quiet in the first-half but were coming to life.

On sixty-five minutes, we broke again with pace. Gusto pushed deep into the Brighton box and spotted Nkunku inside. In a flash, the ball was swept in to the goal with the minimum of fuss.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 2.

I was so low down that I struggled to get any goal celebrations of note.

For a while, the Chelsea supporters took the piss out of one of the home supporters in the stand to our right. I didn’t know the reasons for ridicule, but the poor bloke was getting pummelled with insults. He was slightly overweight (like many of us) and so was an easy target. After minutes of abuse, the Chelsea choir turned the knife deeper.

“You fat bastard, you’re texting your Mum.”

With that he left.

Reece James replaced Gusto and Raheem Sterling replaced Madueke.

The game seemed to be petering out with Chelsea well in charge. Jackson was upended just outside the box by the Brighton ‘keeper but Raheem Sterling wasted the resultant free-kick.

I was proud to see our support clapping both Lamptey and Gilmour when they were substituted. But I had to laugh when Brighton replaced the dangerous Julio Enciso with Ansu Fati.

The Chelsea support to my right sang “we’ve got our Fati back.”

Late on, there was a rough tackle out by the touchline on Reece James and our captain reacted by lashing out with his leg. I spotted it immediately. My mind raced back to David Beckham in France in 1998. A VAR review was signalled and, no surprises, Reece was red carded. What a silly boy.

Fackinell.

Thiago Silva replaced Jackson.

A mammoth ten minutes of added time was signalled and everyone thought the same; “here we go.”

An effort from Simon Adingra smacked against the base of Petrovic’ right-hand post and then in the eighth minute of extra-time, a cross towards the near post by Joao Pedro was touched in by their substitute Danny Welbeck.

Brighton 1 Chelsea 2.

Welbeck’s goal did not surprise me at all. The veteran striker has a good record against us.

More substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Gallagher.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

The last three minutes of the game were tense and nervy.

At last, the referee blew up.

Phew.

With the late, presumably unplanned, appearance of Thiago Silva, I was at least able to get some decent close-up photographs of our much-loved Brazilian legend in his final away game for Chelsea Football Club. He looked emotional as he clapped the away support for the last time.

“Oh Thiago Silva.”

We were back at my car in Lewes at 10.30pm, but those road closures again meant that our journey home was another long one. After I had dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am, I suddenly felt peckish. I stopped at a nearby all-night-garage and bought myself a Chelsea Bun.

There is no punchline.

Tales From The Hot Corner

Posted on May 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us naaaa.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

“Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From Archie’s First London Derby

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 5 May 2024.

With my good friend Alan’s absence from the Chelsea vs. West Ham game due to Bromley’s participation in the National League play-off final at Wembley, there was an extra space in The Sleepy Hollow. Clive had originally given his ticket to Glenn, but it was Clive who picked up Alan’s ticket. Confused? Yeah, me too.

So, the upshot of all that is that there were now five heading up to London in my car for the second London derby in four days. I collected PD and then Glenn at 6.45am, Ron at 7am, Lord Parky at 7.20am.

By 9.20am, I had deposited three of the passengers near “The Eight Bells” and one at the gates to Stamford Bridge. I parked up and darted into the “McDonalds” for a bite to eat and a much-needed coffee. There was a quick chat with John and his son.

“Odd feeling today. I said to the chaps in the car that I was really confident today, but they were having none of it.”

I had a quick chat with Marco at the “CFCUK” stall, a few words with Steve at his programme stall, a brief chat and catch-up with a few former players in the hotel, and a drink with Donna, whose daughter Tallulah was one of the match mascots on this warm and sunny day in West London. I didn’t have my Canon SLR with me on this particular day; the baggage checks are getting more and more draconian and for reasons that I will keep to myself, I didn’t want to risk it. I would be making do with my smaller Sony camera and so, sadly, wouldn’t be able to take any close-ups of Tallulah as she made her way onto the pitch.

With the tubes kaput, I was forced to take the 414 bus down to Putney Bridge. I strolled into the pub just before 11.30am. The boys – joined by the Normandy Division of Ollie and Julien – were already getting stuck into some beers. It was Ollie’s birthday the previous day. To celebrate, I bought a round of shots. A few more rounds of shots would follow.

I, of course, was driving so nothing alcoholic for me.

I took a photo of the lads and posted it on “Facebook.”

I titled it : “Fooligans.”

My friends Aroha and Luke were in the pub, in the far corner, and they were with their two-and-a-half-year-old son Archie, who was bedecked in a blue Chelsea top. This was to be his third Chelsea game, and his first London derby. I have known Aroha and Luke for over ten years or more, and it was a joy to see them bringing their little lad to Chelsea.

At just after 1pm, we set off to catch the 22 bus to Stamford Bridge. Archie was hoisted on top of his father’s shoulders and he joined in with the chanting. I loved that.

However, the bus trip didn’t go as planned, and we seemed to take forever to reach the appropriate point on the King’s Road. Eventually we got off. Very soon, the support struts of the roof at Stamford Bridge could be seen, and I looked back at just the right time to see little Archie’s face light up as he pointed at the sight ahead.

Dear reader, it was such a beautiful moment.

The wonderment and excitement on his little face will be etched on my brain for a long time. We said our goodbyes as we opened up on to the Fulham Road and we made our way in. Lo and behold, nobody stopped me at the second, usually more thorough, bag check at the bottom of the steps to the MHU.

Oh well, I was in.

However, such had been the delay on the bus that I was only just in. As I walked up the final few steps to The Sleepy Hollow, “Liquidator” was booming.

I know I work in logistics, but this really was a little too “just in time” for my liking.

We had heard that Thiago Silva was starting, and the defensive line had been shuffled to accomdate him.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

The bench looked ridiculously stronger than against Tottenham on Thursday.

As the game began, I promised myself to make a note of the movements of comrade Cucarella, who – unbeknown to me – had been adopting a new position further infield once we were in possession in the past one-and-a-half games. The nerds were going wild about it on social media; plainly I had missed the email. I have to say how impressed I was with Cucarella’s scurrying back to his left-back berth once possession was lost, but I noted that even in the first ten minutes, his man was way clear on the right-hand touchline on one occasion. You would think it would be a high-risk strategy, but the wide man was only noticeably unmarked on one other occasion during the whole game.

The West Ham three-thousand started to sing about being “Champions of Europe” and we all guffawed with laughter. I am still unsure if their version is due to them being deluded or a nice effort at self-deprecating irony. For the future of mankind, I hoped for the latter but feared the former.

Fackinell.

In some ways, with no SLR, the pressure was off me to try to get a few killer photographs. The smaller camera was, in my eyes, simply not up to the task. I decided not to take as many photos. On this day, I would take just forty-five photos from the ninety minutes. I usually take three times that amount. I relaxed a little. I still made a note of a few key moments on my ‘phone, but this would be a different kind of game for me. I would be less of a photographer, more of a fan. If that is fucking possible.

There was a little light-jousting in the first quarter of an hour, but I was soon being gloriously entertained.

On fifteen minutes, Noni Madueke created just enough space to lift a cross towards the penalty spot. Nicholas Jackson took a swing but his effort was blocked and the ball came out to the waiting Cole Palmer. I think I inwardly relaxed. Did I expect a goal? Truthfully, yes. Our little diamond instinctively swept the ball in with a gentle swipe towards the far post.

The net rustled.

Areola must have felt a tit.

Chelsea 1 West Ham United 0.

Just after, the head of Jarrod Bowen got to the ball from a corner from Emerson – who? he? – down below us. The header flew in, but thankfully cannoned back off the bar.

Phew.

At around this time, I leaned forward and told Albert in the row in front of me about Clive’s teaser from Thursday. To my shock, Albert only took six guesses and about five minutes to guess the five England players, the “G-Men” from the ‘eighties. I slapped him on the back.

“Well done, son. Well impressed.”

With that, Clive managed to lose the grip on a cup of boiling hot chocolate and a large portion of it spilled onto Albert.

“Easy, Clive, no need to be like that.”

Unfortunately, there are no photographs of the incident.

We were all howling.

With twenty-five minutes gone, we were playing some lovely football. Everything seemed to be knitting together nicely. Efforts from several players rained in on the West Ham goal.

We spoke a little about the day in 1984, almost forty years ago, when West Ham, and more importantly the ICF, visited in vast numbers and despite Chelsea winning 3-0 on the day, it felt that we had been embarrassed a little. Clive took a few hits in The Shed that day. Glenn and I admitted that we were in the safest part of the ground that day; the benches. West Ham, at various times, were in all other parts of the ground. Shudder.

Forty years ago, Fackinell.

On the half-hour mark, a long move saw us creep up the pitch. It was begun with a firm first-time side-foot out of defensive from Thiago Silva, and it really pleased me. It was right on the money. The move developed, mainly down our tight, and although the ball was momentarily lost, it was soon regained. Palmer struck a low roller to the feet of Madueke, but when the ball was semi-cleared – a little similar to the first goal – it ran nicely to Coner Gallagher, who smacked it home on the volley.

Blue & Whites 2 Clarets & Blues 0.

A little knot of Essex Blues behind me were loving it.

Six minutes later, a deep corner in front of the away support from Mkhailo Mudryk was headed back into the six-yard box by Thiago Silva – a resounding leap and header, pure poetry – and the ball ended up in the net. I was a little unsighted, but that man Maduke, had got the final touch.

The Richardsons 3 The Krays 0.

I was up and celebrating with the lads behind me. That little walkway behind my seat has seen some exuberant celebrations over the years and here was another one.

I was up and celebrating another chance just after, as Gallagher smacked a shot from a Palmer cross, after more beautiful twists and turns on the right, against the bar. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t really know what had happened.

But – oh boy, we were purring.

Conor was through, one on one, but fell too easily.

Bizarrely, Bowen hit the Chelsea bar again, just before the break.

At half-time, the warm buzz of quality football. Bliss. A few West Ham fans had already left.

Just three minutes into the second-half, a magnificent ball from deep from Trevoh Chalobah – the sort of ball that I have been wanting to be played for so long – evaded everyone, but dropped into the path of Madueke inside the box. Rather than finish himself, he played the ball square to Nicolas Jackson, who coolly pushed the ball home. Jackson had been a constant worry to the West Ham defence and the goal was richly deserved.

Fulham Broadway 4 Pudding Mill Lane 0.

Up came a massively entertaining chant, slightly-altered from Thursday.

“West Ham get battered, everywhere they go.”

I spotted a little show-boating from Palmer in the middle of the pitch, and the match began to resemble a training game. I wanted more goals – “let’s humiliate them” – but I think that the intensity dropped, and that’s not surprising really.

West Ham threatened our goal with a few half-chances. There was a great save from Petrovic from a James Ward-Prowse free-kick.

Bowen gained an unlikely hat-trick by hitting the bar once again; this time via a slight deflection. Not with his right foot though, so not a perfect woodwork hat-trick. Must try better.

Substitutions took place late in the game.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

Christopher Nknunku for Mudryk.

On eighty minutes, Moises Caicedo won the ball and pushed the ball into the path of the raiding Jackson. To my eyes, it looked offside, and so when Jackson finished coolly, I was not celebrating with too much enthusiasm. There was a massive wait for VAR to confirm…no offside, goal. Kurt Zouma – who? he? – had played him on.

Joe Cole 5 Carlton Cole 0.

More substitutions.

Axel Disasi for Thiago Silva.

Malo Gusto for Chalobah.

Alfie Gilchrist for Palmer.

This was another lovely Chelsea performance and it was a joy to watch from the stands. In the end, my photos weren’t too bad and I include some here of course.

On the drive home, we eyed our last three games and we dreamed of three more wins, and maybe, Europe.

Next up, a solo trip to Nottingham.

See you there.

PS – Archie loved it!

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

Posted on May 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018.

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.

Tales From A Doubleheader

Posted on April 30, 2024 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 27 April 2024.

Ahead of the 8pm game at Villa Park to the north of Birmingham city centre on Saturday 27 April, the pre-match drinking was spent in two pubs in Frome, Somerset.

Let me explain.

After Tuesday’s game at Tavistock. when the home side inflicted a 3-2 defeat to Southern League South league leaders Wimborne Town, all eyes were on Frome Town’s final game of the regular season against Bristol Manor Farm. A win for Frome and anything but a win for Wimborne at nearby Melksham Town would result in my local team returning to the Southern League Premier South for the first time since relegation in 2019.

So, despite Chelsea playing in Birmingham later that day, plans were set in motion to attend the Frome game too. A football double-header? It was simply an offer that I could not refuse.

I had never seen my two teams play on the same day and, if it was to happen, I always presumed that both matches would take place in London. In the days when Frome were playing in the division above, from 2011/12 to 2018/19, there would often be away games in the Home Counties or London itself. I myself saw a game at East Molesey between the Met Police and Frome Town in the autumn of 2018.

But here would be two games one hundred and sixteen miles apart. The distance did not worry me. In fact, I was looking forward to the challenge.

On this heavy day of football, I collected PD in Frome at 11am, then looped up to Holt near Melksham to pick up Parky at 11.30am. Just after midday, we were sat in “The George Hotel” in Frome’s historic Market Place.

On Facebook, I set things up.

“So, it all comes down to this.

This is my thirty-third Frome Town game this season. If it turns out to be my last, we will have made it.

Buzzing. Loads of friends going today. Perfect.

Stop dreaming of the quiet life.

UTFD.”

My good friend Kev – of sound Chelsea heritage, nurtured and honed in Basingstoke and London, and now recently Bristol – was staying in the hotel with his partner Sally and soon joined us. Kev, however, was wearing the colours of the visitors from Shirehampton; the oddly-named Bristol Manor Farm, supported by the Farmy Army, and ironically the team that defeated Frome Town 3-1 in a league play-off at Badgers Hill in 2022.

Kev and I, taking inspiration from the Flamengo vs. Fluminense derby in Rio, have named the games between our two teams as the “Far/Fro Superclassico” over the past few seasons and we have a shared love of the non-league scene. We only met up at a minor cup competition when the two teams met at Frome in 2017 despite being friends on Facebook for years, and having mutual friends all over the Chelsea universe. We settled down to some pre-match banter. Kev was meeting PD and Parky for the first-ever time, but he soon said that he felt that he has known them for years such is the power of social media. At 1pm, I drove us out of the town centre and up the hill towards the next pub, “The Vine Tree”, which is only one hundred yards from the Badgers Hill ground.

Halfway up the hill, Parky made a typically wry comment to a point that I was making and the whole car exploded with laughter. It was almost jolted into oncoming traffic.

“Well, there you go, Kev. That’s the Chuckle Bus for you.”

Once inside “The Vine Tree”, we were joined by my mate Francis, looking rather nervous ahead of the afternoon’s game, and we enjoyed a couple of drinks until it was time to walk up the hill to the stadium.

At about 2.30pm, we were inside, and it already felt like my prediction of a gate of just over 1,000 would be about right. I soon lost PD and Parky and found it hard to meet up with other friends such was the number of fellow supporters in all areas of the stadium. By the main entrance gate, I proffered my hand to the chairman but instead of grabbing hold of it and shaking it, he preferred to give me a big hug. That felt special.

Eventually I met up with the usual match day crew – Francis and I were joined by Steve and Louise, Tom, Rob, Darren, plus Rick from Portsmouth – and we took position on the lower slope of “The Club End” as the game began. An early free-kick to Frome, who were uncharacteristically attacking the home end in this first-half, allowed me to dash over and snap away with my SLR. There are no unyielding bag searches at this level of the game and thankfully no confiscation of cameras. Experienced midfielder George Rigg sent a ball in from out wide and the flight of the ball seemed to bamboozle everyone, not least Seth Locke, the former Frome ‘keeper, now between the sticks for Manor Farm. The ball dolloped in. Pandemonium in East Somerset.

Just after, we heard that Melksham were 1-0 up against Wimborne. At this exact moment, the Dodge were going up.

Alas, this was the highpoint of the game. The away team, dressed in all blue – yes, I was confused a few times – scored through Daniel Dodimead on fifteen minutes after a free-kick was fumbled. The visitors dominated the rest of the first-half, despite few chances for both teams. In Melksham, meanwhile, Wimborne had equalised.

This was a very tense affair.

In the second-half, the gang of us repositioned ourselves under “The Cowshed” at the other end of the stadium, but sadly saw Owen Brain drilled a rising free-kick in at the far post soon into the second period. Frome made some changes and tried to re-assert themselves but the team from Bristol were a tough opponent. We looked tired and leggy. On seventy-one minutes, more calamity. Our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips raced out to clear but lost his footing, leaving Dodimead with an easy lob into an open goal.

At this stage, Wimborne were 2-1 up, and I suddenly knew that I needed to be on my way to Birmingham.

I made my way through a noisy knot of away fans in a fine gate of 1,028 and signalled to PD and Parky, still watching in the “Club End” and with another Chelsea fan Dan – who would be coming to Villa with us – that it was time to make a move.

The guilt of me leaving early at two consecutive games – on 92 minutes at Arsenal, on 75 minutes at Frome Town – was not pleasant, but needs must. The priority now was to get to Villa Park for the 8pm kick-off. At 4.40pm, I pulled out of “The Vine Tree” car park knowing full well that I would be back in Frome for the league play-offs semi-final on Wednesday evening.

I made really good time en route to Birmingham. I even had time to stop off at Strensham, what a luxury. Dan updated us on the results.

“You won’t believe this. Frome ended 3-3.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. 3-3.”

The home team had scored two very late goals via James Ollis on eighty-seven minutes and substitute Reece Rusher on ninety-minutes to tie things up, and to maintain an unbeaten home record in the league for the first time since 1911. A fine achievement.

On Wednesday 1 May, it will line up like this :

Frome Town vs. Mousehole

Cribbs vs. Bristol Manor Farm

The winners will meet each other in the play-off final on Bank Holiday Monday, 6 May. If Frome make it, we will be at home. Within ten days, there could be three gates of over 1,000 at Badgers Hill. Non-league football is on the rise, gates are up at all levels, and who can stop it now?

There were no delays as I headed further up the M5 and then turned past The Hawthorns into the badlands of Birmingham. I dropped the lads off at the roundabout near Witton Station and doubled-back on myself to park up at my allotted “JustPark” spot.

It was 7.15pm.

I had made it.

Just like in 1986/87, I was attending my second of two games at Villa Park in the same season; on Wednesday 7 February we mullered Villa 3-1 in the FA Cup in our most complete performance of the campaign thus far. It didn’t seem five minutes ago since I made the short walk towards the Doug Ellis Stand. The bag-check was minimal.

“What’s that, a camera? OK.”

I had moved our tickets around so that PD could stand next to Parky in the front few rows of the Upper Tier. Meanwhile, I was further back, and alongside a former work colleague who was attending his very first Chelsea game. I have known Terry for the best part of twenty years and in the last couple of years he has very kindly been following my exploits on this website. Last season, as I mentioned the build-up to a game at Villa Park, he spoke to me about the years when he lived very close to the stadium at Perry Bar. If a spare ticket became available for this season’s game at Villa, I promised that he could come along. Recently retired, Terry lives to the south of Birmingham, and I had not seen him for a good six months. It was a joy to see him in the Chelsea section.

Terry had grown up in Erdington in a family of Villa fans, but had never followed them. This was his first-ever game at Villa Park. I explained to Terry how I got to know Ron Harris over the years, and Terry had a nice story for me too. Charlie Aitken, who played more games for Aston Villa – 660 – than anyone else, was Terry’s first landlord when he got married.

795 and 660, what a couple of stalwarts.

As the countdown to the kick-off took place, I was intrigued to see how a Chelsea “newbie” would react to a night of football, but with a Chelsea-esque feel.

After another flurry of flames, then fireworks, then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy – Osbourne, not Osgood – the teams appeared opposite.

Despite the late kick-off, this was a full house for sure, and the Chelsea section on two levels were pretty buoyant. My mate Rob was attending game number two of the day too; earlier he had seen his team Walton & Hersham beat Poole Town 3-0.

Mauricio Pochettino had selected the following.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Game number two began.

We attacked the Holte End in the first-half, or at least tried to. There was a brief foray into the Villa penalty box but after just four minutes, we were exposed. A Villa attack, virtually their first, broke down our left. Marc Cucarella scurried away to keep the danger at bay, but the ball was neatly transferred to the other side. Lucas Digne was free and in acres of space. Our marking was woeful. He found John McGinn, just inside and in a good position for a shot. His effort was miss-hit but took a big enough deflection of Cucarella and fizzed past a stranded Djordje Petrovic.

Just like at Arsenal on Tuesday evening, a goal from the right-hand side of our defence had left us chasing the game. And on this day of two games, earlier in Somerset, Frome had been 1-0 up after four minutes but here in Birmingham, Chelsea were 1-0 down after four minutes.

The Villa fans down to our right were cheering a second soon after, but we could see from our vantage place that Digne had only hit the side netting. Petrovic saved well from Ollie Watkins. We were struggling to find a foothold.

We were all cheering when Conor Gallagher sent a ball over for Nicolas Jackson to score – “he scored in the Cup game too, didn’t he?” – but our elation was stopped by the intervention of VAR. From my position up the other end of the stadium, it did seem like an offside.

We ploughed on, but our approach play was so laboured. Frustrations grew with each passing minute. Noni Madueke, who had begun brightly, drifted out of the game but Mykhailo Mudryk never ever got going. He received the ball in wide areas often enough, but exhibited no guile nor nous in making any telling contribution. Two identical efforts after cutting in drifted so high and wide of the goal frame as to be hardly worthy of the term.

We managed to conjure up a couple of chances, but a Cole Palmer chance went wide while Moises Caicedo hit straight at Emiliano Martinez.

I lost count of the number of times that Badiashile and Silva received the ball from virtually all of our players. It was as if the coaching team at Cobham had inverted the entire direction of play.

“Don’t worry about hitting Nicolas and Cole as early as you can lads, keep looking for Benoit and Thiago, that’s the spirit.”

This was hard to watch.

Then, a deep cross from the boot of Cucarella at the by-line was headed down by an unmarked Jackson but his effort bounced back off the base of the post.

I wasn’t impressed with the home team though; they seemed to be playing within themselves, seemingly content with a narrow lead.

Sadly, just before the half-time whistle, Villa enjoyed a very rare break. The ball was played simply to Morgan Rogers – “there’s always a spare man that side” – who adeptly struck low into the corner of our net.

Neither team had played well, yet Chelsea went into the break 0-2 down.

This was always going to be a tough game. And here we were, right in the middle of it and right up against it.

To my right, Cliff hoped that Poch’s half-time pep-talk, no pun intended, would inspire the troops, but this was said with his tongue well and truly in his cheek. I knew what he meant exactly.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking our end.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, we improved immensely. Madueke was full of running and trickery down below us, though was too reliant on his left foot to be truly sensational. A few chances came and went.

Cucarella.

Madueke.

Silva.

On sixty-two minutes, excellent Chelsea pressure in the Villa box from Palmer and Gallagher allowed the ball to run for Madueke. He wasted no time, hitting the ball as it came across his body with his left peg. The ball sped past the substitute Villa ‘keeper Robin Olsen and into the goal. We were back in it. The scorer ran off into the middle distance but seemed to be ranting at the Chelsea crowd at the same time. Answers on a postcard.

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

Chelsea continued to shine, and there was special praise for both Caicedo and Badiashile who grew with each passing moment. At last we saw crunching tackles from Caicedo. The Chelsea support were soon to applaud. We were playing with more bite, more hunger, and we found spaces in tight areas. Jackson never stopped running, a real handful for his markers. This really was much better.

There was a fine low save from Petrovic after a rare Villa break in front of the Holte End.

A few more chances. Everyone, of course, was stood, as we had been for the entire match. We urged the players on.

With eighty-one minutes played, Gallagher found a little space for himself and curled a magnificent shot towards goal with his left foot. The flight of the ball was perfection. The net rippled. We went doo-lally. We were level.

Fackinell.

On eighty-nine minutes, and with not a soul having left, the manager made two very late changes.

Axel Disasi for Silva.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

It had been another cool and calm performance from Silva. It had been the antithesis of cool and calm from Mudryk.

Palmer swept into the box but produced a fine save from Olsen.

A corner down below us. Palmer swung it in. A Villa header and the ball bounced high. Badiashile won a challenge and hooked the ball back in. Disasi the substitute seemed to arrive late but flung himself at the ball.

Snap – GOAL – snap, snap, snap.

To my left, Terry was punching the air like a loon, and I was too. What a comeback, what a game, and I was sure that one or two snaps of the screaming Disasi would make me happy.

Wild celebrations.

But then, the bloke behind me mentioned VAR and a push.

Of course. I remembered it now. The push by Badiashile. Yes. It looked unlawful. No shoulder charge, that.

The inevitable wait, but VAR spoke.

No goal.

Ugh.

So, there was modern football encapsulated within a few seconds.

Joy, pain, euphoria, annoyance, ecstasy, misery.

“You don’t get VAR shite at Frome Town.”

I said my farewells to Terry and the lads around me. I soon met up with PD, Parky and Dan outside. We hobbled back to the car and I began the drive home. We had enjoyed the second-half, not so much the first. We stopped to refuel at Hilton park, and I eventually made it home at about 2am.

It had been another long day, but it threw up a lot of fine memories.

Kev had left me a message that I did not spot until very late on :

“From Parky’s quip in the car onwards, it has been a day of comebacks.”

I smiled.

Next up, we play the old enemy at Stamford Bridge on Thursday.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham.

Makes you shiver with excitement, doesn’t it?

See you there.

Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea

Tales From St. George’s Day

Posted on April 26, 2024 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 April 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arsenal – away.

Aston Villa – away.

Tottenham Hotspur – home.

West Ham United – home.

Nottingham Forest – away.

Brighton & Hove Albion – away.

Bournemouth – home.

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

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

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

I turned left, and I visited the past.

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

In 1984, Chelsea were back. And how.

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

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

I walked past the Arsenal tube station once again.

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

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

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

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

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

PD, Chris and Ray with Herbert in the background.

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

“Have you seen the team?”

I had, and the concern was the defence.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

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

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

But no Malo Gusto and no Cole Palmer. Gulp.

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

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

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

I spotted some faces around and about.

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

“And I can’t stand Arsenal.”

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

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

But that’s enough about Rio Ferdinand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, for fuck sake.

Arsenal 1 Chelsea 0.

Just four minutes had elapsed.

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

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

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

“We won 4-1 in Baku.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arsenal 2 Chelsea 0.

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

Arsenal 3 Chelsea 0.

Lots of Chelsea left.

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

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

Arsenal 4 Chelsea 0.

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

Time for two substitutions.

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

Trevoh Chalobah for Enzo.

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

Arsenal 5 Chelsea 0.

Oh God, no more. Please.

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

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

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

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

More substitutions.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

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

Tavistock were 2-1 up. Get in.

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

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

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

94 minutes : Tavistock 3 Wimborne Town 2.

My heart jumped. It soon became the final score.

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

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

Ugh.

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

The others?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Frome Town to Aston Villa.

I can’t bloody wait.

Tales From The Sweet FA

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beep.”

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

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

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

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

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

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

Beep.

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

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

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

I sang different lyrics.

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

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

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

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

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

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

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

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

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

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

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

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

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

In the East End :

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

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

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

At 5.15pm, the game began.

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

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

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

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

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

Good stuff.

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

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

Groans.

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

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

Stirring stuff.

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

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

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

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

Glimpses. That word again.

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

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

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

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

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

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

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

Fackinell.

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

Music to my lug-holes.

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

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

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

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

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

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

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

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

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

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

Bollocks.

Tales From A Cold Night

Posted on April 19, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 April 2024.

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

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

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

Newcastle United 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0.

Liverpool 0 Crystal Palace 1.

West Ham 0 Fulham 2.

Arsenal 0 Aston Villa 2.

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

Yes. There I said it.

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

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

Perfect.

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

“Going Underground” by The Jam.

“Echo Beach” by Martha And The Muffins.

“Call Me” by Blondie.

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

Then, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits.

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

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

The teams appeared.

Us?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Them?

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

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

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

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

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

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

It was almost too easy.

Alan : THTCAUN.

Chris : COMLD.

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

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

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

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

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

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

…thinking : ”this looks in.”

Yep, the ball dropped into the empty net.

A roar from the Chelsea crowd.

Chelsea 3 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

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

Alan : “was that his right foot?”

Chris : “yep.”

Alan : “Perfect.”

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

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

Phew.

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

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

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

Total photos : 58

Goal celebrations : 28

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

Baby steps and all that.

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

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

Palmer placed the ball on the spot.

Palmer scored.

Chelsea 5 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

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

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

Mauricio Pochettino made some changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Madueke.

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

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

More changes came.

Cesare Casadie for Palmer.

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

Ben Chilwell for Mudryk.

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

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

Two more late changes.

Alfie Gilchrist for Gusto.

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

Deivid Washington for Jackson.

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

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

Fackinell.

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

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

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

See you there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2023-2024

Tales From A Second-Half Fade

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

Tales From The Hot Corner

Tales From Archie’s First London Derby

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

Tales From A Doubleheader

Tales From St. George’s Day

Tales From The Sweet FA

Tales From A Cold Night