Tales From Christmas Eve

Posted on December 26, 2023 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 24 December 2023.

There was much negative press surrounding the Premier League’s decision to allow Sky TV to move our match at Molineux to Christmas Eve. I felt sorry for those normal match-goers from both sides who had made solid arrangements for other activities on that day and were now forced to either change plans or miss the game completely. The problem stemmed from the fact there had been very little precedent for such a game. The last Premier League game to take place on Christmas Eve took place in 1995 at Elland Road with a game between the two Uniteds of Leeds and Manchester. Chelsea’s last game on 24 December was way back in 1966, a 1-2 defeat by Liverpool at Stamford Bridge. So, as plans for Christmas were discussed in Chelsea households in the autumn, there was minimal thought that Chelsea would be playing away to Wolverhampton Wanderers on any other date other than Saturday 23 December.

Then Sky TV gate-crashed the party and a change to the date of the game was made. Match-going fans went through a range of reactions; from being dumbfounded, to being irate, to being sad. Existing travel plans would need to be re-hashed and there is no doubt that many a relationship endured a few tense moments. I suspect that train and coach timetables were studiously scanned anew.

As it happens, the change did not really affect me too much. In fact, I came out of it for the better. With us playing on the Sunday, our Boxing Day game at home to the Stripey Nigels was to be shunted back twenty-four hours, taking place on the evening of Wednesday 27 December. This, ironically, would allow me to attend the Frome Town vs. Melksham Town Derby on Boxing day.

On the Friday evening, away in some distant part of Bristol, I attended the Frome Town away game at Cribbs. A draw would take us top. Unfortunately, despite dominating possession Frome had no cutting edge – sound familiar? – and the home team won the encounter 1-0. It was the home team that would go top of the division.

I almost forgot that games were being played on the Saturday as I wrote up my match report from the eventful Newcastle United cup tie.

Sunday – Christmas Eve – soon arrived. I set the alarm for 6am and at just after 7am I stepped outside into the dark to wait for Glenn to arrive to drive up to the Black Country. I soon clambered into the back of his black VW van. PD was riding shotgun alongside Glenn. Unfortunately, Parky was unable to join us on this trip.

We stopped off for a brief McBreakfast en route at Strensham – the place was deathly quiet – and Glenn rolled up outside “The Bluebrick” pub just to the east of the Wolverhampton city centre at 10am.

On the drive up, Glenn had earmarked our next three games as all being “winnable” but I wasn’t so confident and neither was PD.

The pub, an adjunct to a new hotel, soon became swarmed with away fans. This was a dedicated “Chelsea fans only” boozer. We visited it back in April ahead of the return of Frank Lampard as manager for his second stint as manager. I remembered, all too easily, the sense of optimism in that early April sun. How soon that feeling dissipated. Our last two visits to Molineux have been dreadfully unattractive games of football.

We spotted a few usual faces at the pub. There was a little talk about the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough. I have already booked up cheap digs in Stockton-on-Tees for the away leg. There is still a healthy appetite to see us – especially away – despite this poor season. Over the two games, we would have to fancy our chances against ‘Boro. Our away take should be over the usual league allowance of 3,000. Hopefully we will have 3,500 or more up there. It will certainly be different from the 650 who were “allowed” in for that odd FA Cup tie back in 2022.

This was only the fourth game out of twenty-two this season where I was able to have a drink. The three pints of lager were a nice change. We stood inside as the weather deteriorated a little.

We set off for Molineux at about 11.50am. I had a spare ticket that I was able to hand over to Gemma who lives in nearby Birmingham outside the away turnstiles. There was a little chat with a few mates. There was scant optimism. I was inside at about 12.30pm. I immediately spotted Bank from Bangkok – he was at the corresponding match last season – and it was good to see him again. Blue and white Santa hats, printed with the date of the game, were being handed out to the away contingent.

I picked up one but promised myself that I would only wear it if it began raining.

“Please don’t rain.”

Glenn and PD took their position to be alongside Alan, Gary and John away to the right, while I stood next to Gemma equidistant between the half-way line and the South Stand which used to be the site of a huge bank of terracing in Wolves’ heyday. There is always a lot of conjecture on various football forums about which end had the highest capacity when terraces existed. The three front-runners always seem to be Liverpool’s Kop, Aston Villa’s Holte End and Molineux’ South Bank. I think it is widely agreed that The Kop was the widest, the South Bank went back the furthest, but the Holte End was the largest. There are currently plans to continue the large double-tiered Stan Cullis stand around the other three sides. Until then, the once neat Molineux looks a little lopsided. The Stan Cullis Stand doesn’t sit well on the eye.

The away following is positioned along the length of the pitch in the lower tier of the Steve Bull Stand, the oldest part of the modernised stadium, constructed way back in 1979. Getting a song together at Molineux is always a tough ask. This particular day would be no different.

A friend – Daryl – had quoted the words to a Slade song earlier in the day on Facebook and I had this song – “Far Far Away” – reverberating in my brain all morning. Slade were from the Black Country, though, so at least I suppose that it was apt. Before the game, the Molineux DJ played a Midlands-themed section of songs.

There was Slade again and the festive classic “Merry Xmas Everbody” which was released in December 1973. It brought back some sweet memories of that particular Christmas. It is undoubtedly my favourite festive time. I had managed to avoid making an arse of myself in my only appearance at a school nativity play, held in the village hall, and this magnificent song from Slade at “Number One” quickly evokes my warm feelings from that particular year. I can vividly remember being at school and announcing that Slade’s classic had gone to the top of the pile, taking over from “I Love You Love Me Love” by another glam-rock singer who will remain nameless. But the main reason why Christmas 1973 is so fondly remembered is that my parents announced that they would take me to Stamford Bridge for the first-ever time in the New Year.

Yes, Christmas 1973 was lovely.

Fifty years ago.

Oh to be eight again.

The Slade hit from all those decades ago was quickly followed by “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” by Wizard, another Midlands band, and this reached number two behind Slade in 1973.

Next up, “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin, a nod towards Robert Plant – born locally – and an honorary vice-president of Wolves to this day. I spotted Plant chatting to a villager outside the local pub in my village that he was staying in for the Glastonbury Festival in 2022.

Next up, a crooner from Tupelo Mississippi, not the Black Country, and “The Wonder Of You.”

I was wondering if it should be-remixed as “The Wonder Of Yow.”

I whispered to the bloke next to me –

“Just play ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ and be bloody done with it.”

After the golden flames appeared in front of the Steve Bull Stand, “Hi Ho” appeared on the playlist and how the locals loved it.

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton!”

I reminded Gemma that “this lot were fined last year for the homophobic stuff, weren’t they?”

Over in the stand to the right, there were banners honouring Derek Dougan and Billy Wright, along with Steve Bull, Wolves’ most favourite sons.

It was a mild and overcast day. The grey skies closed in on Molineux.

Chelsea appeared in the deep blue away kit for the first time.

“Looks too Tottenham to me” I thought.

Up close there are the geometric lines that would not have looked out of place on a sci-fi poster from the mid-‘eighties.

“One for the nerds” I thought to myself.

Our team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

Or something like that. At times Broja ran the wide channels. At times Jackson did. Who knows?

We attacked the old South Bank that used to hold almost 30,000 in the first-half. Renamed the Sir Jack Hayward Stand it now holds a lot less. In a far corner there is an open-air segment that holds around a thousand hardy souls.

In the first ten minutes, there were a couple of half-chances for Nicolas Jackson – “pull the trigger!” – and Armando Broja that left the Chelsea faithful mumbling words of distress.

Some of those wearing the Santa hats – of which there were many, I fear for humanity – began swirling them above their heads, which brought back an image of scarf-twirling from my first game in 1974 – and this was met by ridicule from the South Bank.

“What the fookin’ hell was that?”

And then, I was just able to decipher this –

“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”

After a quarter of an hour I turned to Gemma and said “I hate to say it but we have so much of the ball but carry no threat at all.”

However, Wolves breaks were cut out pretty easily by the Chelsea defence. Levi Colwill doesn’t convince me as a left-back though. He hasn’t impressed me greatly this season. Raheem Sterling enjoyed a few pacey bursts down in front of us, but his end product was shocking.

On twenty minutes, Jackson completely miss controlled a ball into him, with nobody close. The frustration rose. The home fans began booing Sterling after he fell too easily in the box. The abuse was loud. I looked at Sterling for a reaction. There was nothing.

The Chelsea fans backed him :

“Raheem Sterling, he’s won more than you.”

I liked it that we were sticking up for him – not the easiest player to warm to – but then realised that all of the trophies that were being referenced had been won with Manchester City.

Er.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free-kick from the man Sterling. It flew over the wall. It was the sort of free-kick that needed to be clipped, not struck through.

A silly foul on a Wolves player just outside our box resulted in a free-kick that thankfully came to zilch.

On thirty-one minutes, the defining moment of the half, if not the whole game. From a goal-kick, Joao Gomes was pick-pocketed by Sterling and we watched as he raced away in a central position. To his right, supporting him, were Palmer and Jackson. Surely a goal would follow here. Unbelievably, Sterling chose not to pass but to shoot. Agonisingly, the Wolves’ ‘keeper Jose Sa got down to block. I don’t really want to include the photo in my match gallery but feel I have to.

Sorry.

To make matters worse, a weak shot from Gallagher from the follow up was easily saved by Sa.

The Chelsea support bellowed their anger towards Sterling.

I muttered my two penn’orth : “I can’t even begin to work out how many years I need to work to earn what he earns in a week.”

I hate modern football.

There were a few half-chances at the end of the first-half. Petrovic hesitated but was then let off. Palmer shot over. At least he is not afraid to shoot.

It had been a pretty dire half.

My pre-match prediction of a 0-0 draw seemed to be spot on.

Just as the second-half began, the two Bobs resumed watching from two rows in front of me. I took a photo. They smiled. I suggested to them that I will never see them happy ever again.

There were a few Wolves chances. After Thiago Silva gave up possession cheaply, a shot from Gomes touched a post as it was deflected off Ugochukwu. Then a strong header directed with pace at our ‘keeper at the near post from Toti but Petrovic blocked well. They had enjoyed the brighter start to the half.

On fifty-one minutes, a corner – one of a few – from the Wolves right. The ball fell centrally, but there was no Chelsea presence, no Chelsea leap, no Chelsea anything. Mario Lemina rose unchallenged to glance the ball in.

Bollocks.

Approaching the hour, Mauricio Pochettino shuffled the pack.

Christopher Nkunku came on for Ugochukwu and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the poor Broja. I wondered, as did many, how Jackson was still on the pitch. Mudryk took up residency on the left and we tried our hardest to will him past players. On sixty-five minutes, Nkunku stabbed a half-chance at goal but it was deflected and then cleared off the line. Just after, receiving the ball centrally, Nkunku chose not to shoot but to pass to Palmer who chose not to shoot but to pass to Sterling who chose not to shoot but…you get the message…he took a touch, an extra touch that flattened the angle, and the Wolves defender Craig Dawson blocked the low shot. The ball spun high and over the bar.

Expletive. Expletive. Expletive.

It seemed to be all Chelsea by now, but we were not creating much. For Frome Town on Friday read Chelsea on Sunday. A Malo Gusto error let in a Wolves strike, but it was saved.

More substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Colwill.

Benoit Badiashile for Gusto.

Noni Madueke for Jackson.

I didn’t join in the applause that greeted Jackson’s substitution, but many did. Each to their own, eh?

With the influx of new players, it seemed like a new team out there, certainly in the attacking third. I wondered if it was asking too much to expect them to gel, to fit together, to create chances. The Chelsea support, hardly making much of a contribution all game, were roused a little and tried to inspire the players.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A crazy extra eleven minutes were signalled.

“Fackinell, we’ve got homes to go to.”

Madueke was full or running and looked a threat. He launched a curler that sadly swept past the Wolves goal.

On ninety-three minutes, Wolves carved us open way too easily down to my left. As the move developed, I had this sudden fear of them scoring and the Chelsea crowd leaving en masse. I must have a sixth-sense. A cross was played in. It hit the heel of Badiashile – what a calamity – and sat up nicely for Matt Doherty to slide the ball home.

Goal.

People left.

Fackinell.

The South Bank seized the moment.

“Take your hats and fuck off home.”

I inwardly smiled.

Gits.

As is so often the case, the team chasing an equaliser soon scored after conceding another goal. The substitute Nkunku adeptly headed home a fine cross from Sterling, who had also managed to stay on the pitch despite almost half-a-team-full of substitutions.

Virtually the last action of the whole horrid game was a thumped free-kick by Gallagher that was easily claimed by Sa, all dressed in pink like a stick of Blackpool rock.

It would seem that we are only seeing glimpses, occasional glimpses, of this team playing half-decent football at the moment. It is a huge worry. As we approach the half-way mark in this totally underwhelming season, I see us finishing no higher than our current position of tenth. The half-way mark will be reached at home to Crystal Palace on Wednesday.

See you there.

Tales From Chelsea World

Posted on December 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 December 2023.

The League Cup Quarter-Final at home to Newcastle United was positioned just before the rush of football games over Christmas and the New Year. In this heady period – from Friday 22 December to Monday 1 January – there would be three Chelsea games and three Frome Town games for me to attend. It’s what Christmas is for, right?

The visiting Geordies would be backed by a strong following of around 5,500 in The Shed but their team were beset with injuries. Chelsea, too, were missing several first-teamers. It was a match that intrigued me. It was a game that we could win. It was a game that could propel us into an unlikely Semi-Final. But Newcastle United would be a tough opponent despite their missing players.

An early shift behind me, I deposited my three passengers off at two different locations at Chelsea World; the first-two were dropped-off on Bramber Road, just a short hop to the evening’s base of “The Rylston” on Lillee Road and the third one was deposited right outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge. As I slowly drove back along the Fulham Road, I snapped the view of the West Stand, its forecourt and the milieu of Christmas lights falling like snow from the stand’s facade, the neon lights and the club crest, the milling crowds, a bright Christmas tree, and the Peter Osgood statue.

It felt like I was driving home for Christmas.

SW6 may not be my home, but sometimes it feels like it must be.

Not wanting to collect an unwanted parking ticket I drove around for twenty minutes and then parked up on Mulgrave Road bang on five o’clock. I met up with PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve in “The Rylston” just after 5pm.

The kick-off was at 8pm. We had three hours to relax. By an odd quirk, this pub – nestled under the flats of the Clem Atlee Estate – is run by the same pub management company as our usual haunt “The Eight Bells” further south. The Yellow Panda Pub Company has just these two in their portfolio. The lads worked their way through a few lagers, while I had the usual non-alcoholic offerings that accompany my match days. Food was a third off between 3pm and 6pm so a decent picante pizza was less than a tenner. It went down well.

I looked around at the clientele and it was very different from “The Eight Bells.” Our usual domicile, right down the bottom end of Fulham, is full of what could quite rightly be termed “old school” Chelsea support; virtually all blokes, decidedly working class, hardly any Chelsea colours on show, ribald laughter booming. In contrast, “The Rylston” attracted a more varied demographic; more couples, a few Chelsea shirts on show, a more middle-class vibe, hushed tones.

I could not help feel that these two pubs had swapped their clientele. Once an estate pub – I remember it as looking pretty rough, at least from the outside, “The Rylston” still has one of the poorest estates in London on its doorstep. It has, however, undergone a tidy re-vamp over the last decade. I like it a lot. By contrast, “The Eight Bells” is located, to my eyes, in a more affluent adjacent area.

I can almost hear the “compare and contrast” instruction from a social geography course at poly in the ‘eighties.

As we left the pub at about 6.45pm – a mild night – I took a few photos of the lads. I could not help but notice the black and white pub sign. I remembered the Panda from the pub company. Was I tempting fate ahead of the tie against the black and white hordes. At least a single magpie didn’t ominously appear. We made our way along Lillee Road, a red London bus drove past, the Clem Atlee to our right, the towering Empress State Building ahead. Another London bus flew by. We were deep in Chelsea World. I smiled.

Driving home for Christmas.

We were all in at about 7.15pm.

As the away fans were encamped in The Shed, Parky had been transplanted to the Matthew Harding. As against Brighton and Blackburn Rovers, I took his ticket and he took mine so that he could sit alongside PD and Alan in “The Sleepy”; my seat was centrally towards the goal. I spotted Luke, another Shed End regular – who used to sit very close to Lord Parsnips until last season – and so I took a snap of them being reunited at the other end of the stadium.

There were the Newcastle fans, set up in two tiers, at The Shed, and a decent showing on a Tuesday night in London. They brought a few flags, including a very odd one that featured the letters “NUFC” and an image of a woman with a tooth missing.

At 7.50pm, “London Calling”, “Parklife” and “Liquidator.”

The usual – kinda cringe worthy by now – light show and accompanying flames welcomed the teams onto the pitch.

Our Chelsea eleven?

Djordje Petrovic.

Axel Disasi – Thiago Silva – Benoit Badiashile – Levi Colwill

Moises Caicedo – Conor Gallagher

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Raheem Sterling

Nicolas Jackson

In the Newcastle United team was Tino Livramento but not Lewis Hall. Despite some players missing, they still boasted Miguel Amiron, Callum Wilson and Anthony Gordon, all undoubted threats.

It was a lively start. An unmarked Gordon managed to get a shot in on the goal that we were defending down below us but it was deflected for a corner. On six minutes, Gallagher saw his curling effort bounce against the Shed End crossbar. We began well. There was a Newcastle cross from their right that didn’t drop for an attacker to pounce but it had me worried.

Not long after, calamity. From a cross from the bye-line from Disasi, we gave up possession and Newcastle broke with pace. Callum Wilson, however, had Caceido chasing him and the twin pillars of Silva and Badiashile closing in on him. This pincer movement failed. He ghosted past Silva. Badiashile then seemed to get his legs tangled. I watched in horror as the ball was adeptly curled with the outside of his foot past the forlorn dive of Petrovic.

Fackinell.

It seemed the unluckiest of goals to concede, but now we were up against it.

We were immediately treated to an absolutely magnificent sliding tackle from Silva, and if I was to say that it was worth the admission money alone I would stand by my comment. Pure class.

A twist and a shot at the near post from Palmer. There was a nice “one-two” between Sterling and Caicedo on twenty-seven minutes but his roller just evaded the goal frame. Just after, another shot from Sterling was blocked after a decent break down the right.

These chances were few and far between though. I was again frustrated to see Sterling in acres of space but criminally under-utilised. Our build-up play lacked guile. The two centre-backs seemed to be touching the ball every five seconds.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slower.”

At least the Newcastle threat had dwindled; they were quite content to defend deep.

“LOW BLOCK” shout the FIFA nerds.

Yeah, low bock, whatever.

Fernandez was surprisingly substituted on thirty-two minutes and was replaced by Armando Broja. There was a shifting of personnel and Sterling popped up on the right, taking over from Palmer. Jackson was shunted out towards the East Stand. I speculated if he would be better positioned behind the East Stand.

The noise from us wasn’t great. There were a few attempts at getting something started. I couldn’t decipher much of it, but the away fans were making a fair old racket.

“Noo-cassel You-nited. We’ll nevah be defeated.”

As the first-half continued, I moaned to the chap next to me “one-hundred and ten passes and its going nowhere.”

Jackson was having a minimal impact, aside from getting caught offside. There had been one, just one, excellent run from him – that both the bloke next to me and I had spotted – but which was not spotted by the man on the ball. We longed for the movement of Crespo or Vialli.

“Proper strikers” he murmured.

It was so noticeable that, even with Broja on the pitch, we were loath to send crosses into the Geordie box. I wondered that we would need Zaphod Beeblebrox loitering at the far post before we started crossing high balls into the mixer.

At the end of the first-half, Broja’s goal was called back for offside, Newcastle had two efforts on our goal, and Palmer supplied, probably, one of the highest ever crosses seen at Stamford Bridge, only for Jackson to head it over at the far stick. Perhaps if he had two heads he would have fared better.

At half-time, there were moans.

“We aren’t hitting our front players quick enough. By the time we play the bloody ball, they are fully marked.”

At the break, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill at left-back.

The chap next to me said that if Reece James was to be out for an extended stay, as is likely, Gusto would be an able replacement. I could not disagree. He has been a good addition this season.

Soon into the first-half, there was nothing but praise and applause for the much-maligned Jackson who chased a Newcastle break from Gordon and put in a timely tackle way inside our own half. Fair play to him. I was not upset when Gordon would soon be substituted.

Bursting down the right, that man Gusto played in Broja who set up Jackson. He swivelled nicely but his GPS let him down, the shot missing the near post by a yard or so. A minute after, Jackson prodded the ball through to the rampaging Sterling, but his low shot was pushed – low down – past the far post by Dubravka.

There was noise now.

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

You know the tune.

Stamford Bridge was alive and it felt like a proper game, a proper cup tie.

On the hour, another magnificently-timed sliding tackle from Silva. More glorious applause.

“Come on, keep up the intensity Chels.”

By now, Newcastle’s attack had virtually ceased.

The noise continued. At last Christopher Nkunku made his Chelsea debut, replacing Jackson.

A big roar.

It seemed like the second coming of Christ.

I turned to the chap to my right.

“No pressure.”

Ten minutes later, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling and Ian Maatsen replaced Disasi. Gusto moved to the right. Mudryk was soon attempting to dance down the left. Was I confident of us getting an equaliser? Maybe. Only maybe.

Into the last ten minutes, the atmosphere had noticeably quietened. Perhaps the Chelsea faithful were not confident of that equaliser. Mudryk found himself our main threat. A teasing cross was headed, almost disastrously, into his own goal by Livramento.

On eighty-nine minutes, a wriggle from Gallagher – our best player, he was everywhere – and a coming together of bodies but no penalty.

There were four minutes of injury time but I had hoped for more.

Four minutes? Fackinell.

The bloke next to me couldn’t hold it in any longer, and excused himself. He got up, we shook hands, and off he went. I like these temporary friendships that we make at football. I’ll probably never see him again, but it is always nice not to be sat next to a dickhead, of which there are many, at Chelsea. At away games, those temporary friendships always tend to solidify over the years.

Into injury time, a deep cross from the nimble and mobile Gusto was aimed at the far post. For some reason that only he knows, Keiran Trippier reacted oddly to the ball as it bounced up in front of him. He seemed to be shocked that the ball would take its trajectory. Mudryk, just behind him, reacted quickly.

My heart-beat increased. I gulped some air. I stood.

The ball sat up nicely.

The Ukrainian walloped it in.

Fackinell.

GET IN.

The Bridge boomed.

The scorer ran past the lucky ones in the front row at pitch side and continued his run over to the West Stand, not usually the place to aim for. Shades of Micky Thomas against Sheffield Wednesday in 1984.

Stay still my beating heart.

Fackinell indeed.

Ninety-three minutes had elapsed. This was indeed a late-late show. I immediately thought back to a Les Ferdinand equaliser for the Toon Army, equally late, in an FA Cup tie in January 1996. Revenge for that, maybe?

Before we could breath, the final whistle sounded. I hoped for the penalties to be taken down our end. There seemed to be a longer-than-usual delay.

The players walked to the half-way line and faced the Newcastle followers in The Shed.

Ugh.

I remembered an FA Cup loss on penalties at The Shed against Everton in 2011.

I prepared my camera for its big moments.

Cole Palmer – a confident strike low to the right, tucked just inside the post.

1-0.

Callum Wilson – down the middle, git.

1-1.

Conor Gallagher – a short run up but a smash high, phew.

2-1.

Keiran Trippier – “you little prick” might have out him off, a drive wide of the left-hand post.

2-1.

Christopher Nkunku – a confident smack high left, welcome to Chelsea my son.

3-1.

Bruno Guimaraes – a stop/start run up, but struck just inside the right-hand post.

3-2.

Mykhailo Mudryk – a brief approach, stroked to the left, surely evoking Didier in Munich for us all.

4-2.

Matt Ritchie – confidently struck, but flamboyantly saved by Petrovic, magnificent stuff.

Yes!

Within the space of sixteen minutes, we had come back from the dead. Into the League Cup semis we went. Thousands of puns simultaneously erupted all over Chelsea World about Djordje and the Geordies.

This was a stunning turnaround. But it was a reward for our dominance in an increasingly noisy and enthralling second-half.

“Freed From Desire” boomed around Stamford Bridge and there was a lot of untidy body movements in the Matthew Harding Upper. Then “One Step Beyond” and even more shocking behaviour.

But I didn’t mind.

Outside, there were so many Chelsea smiles and a massive sense of release.

“Freed” indeed. Maybe the DJ was right.

Fackinell.

Our team and our club continue to confuse us all, but this win seemed so important. I am not going to naively suggest it might save our season but stranger things have happened. It might just get the positivity flowing again.

As I drove home, we learned that Middlesbrough had beaten Port Vale and Fulham had edged out Everton.

We often underplay the importance of the League Cup these days, but surely no Chelsea fan currently does. I can’t wait for the semi-final.

See you there.

Postscript 1.

In preparing for this write-up, I stumbled across the realisation that in September 2010, we came from 1-3 down to get to 3-3 in a League Cup game against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge only for Shola Ameobi to score on ninety minutes to give the visitors a 4-3 triumph. Shockingly, I have no recollection of this game.

Postscript 2.

As I reached my car on Mulgrave Road, I had opened up my boot and threw my jacket in. There, in a corner, I spotted a black and white bobble hat – a free-gift from a visit to see Queens Park at Hampden a year ago – and I smiled. I need not have worried about me tempting the Footballing Gods with those black and white references pre-match. I had already committed a cardinal sin, but thankfully I had not been punished.

Tales From The Boys From Somerset, Wiltshire And Normandy

Posted on December 17, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sheffield United : 16 December 2023.

I was in early again, at around 2.30pm, and I soon found myself talking to Oxford Frank. I was finding it hard to find much enthusiasm for the game against Sheffield United in light of the recent two matches, and defeats, against Manchester United and Everton. Frank was in the same frame of mind too. As many have said, this doesn’t seem like our Chelsea at the moment, nor has it for a while. Our players, our myriad of players, are struggling to find any noticeable improvement in their play and many fans bemoan how distant we feel from these same players. They are meant to be our heroes, but I wouldn’t really want to go out for a drink with many of the current squad, with one or two possible exceptions. Never has the “us and them” relationship felt so strained.

I joked with Frank that I wished that I could, in fact, be teleported at 2.45pm away from my sacred second home at Stamford Bridge – and after enjoying a lovely pre-match in deepest Fulham – to attend the visit of league leaders Wimborne Town to Frome Town back in Somerset. Then, back to SW6 to catch up with my mates to drive them home again.

And it had been a very fine pre-match. I was at Stamford Bridge early. The theme of my early morning photographs from a grey London was of the stalls selling scarves, colours and memorabilia along the Fulham Road. These add a little vibrancy to the game-day vibe, though are goods that none of my pals bother with, the odd fanzine an exception. There were chats with Steve, Kim, Cliff and Marco as I loitered for a while. Nobody was particularly looking forward to the game against lowly Sheffield United per se, but it didn’t stop us smiling and digging some laughs from our current position.

I spent a couple of hours or so in the pub. What a raucous little place it turned into. The boozer was packed. Most were locals, or at least the usual match-day crew, and all of us found some degree of gallows humour amidst our plight. The Normandy Division – Ollie, Julien and Jerome – were over and we thoroughly enjoyed their company.

Amidst the laughter, I looked at Ollie and gestured to the few packed tables near us.

“Ici, c’est Chelsea, mon ami.”

He understood.

“C’est vrai.”

Not the players, us…

Mates not millionaires.

I had not met Jerome before, but he was welcomed. We are doing our bit for “entente cordiale” and it is a pleasure. We agreed, however, on one thing.

“Fuck PSG.”

What a horrible club.

Inside Stamford Bridge, the away fans seem subdued. There were hardly any flags. I think that they already know their fate this season. This would be only the fifth time that I would have seen the Blades at Stamford Bridge. The most infamous, for them, was the 3-2 win for us in May 1993 that condemned them to relegation. I detailed that one four years ago so there is no need going over old ground again. The last visit was a 2-2 draw in early 2019/20. Chris Wilder was back in charge again, given another stab at a very tough task.

Surely we would beat Sheffield United?

PD was adamant that if we were to lose – a nadir that nobody needed to witness – we would be relegated. I wasn’t quite so gloomy.

Amid yet more injuries, Mauricio Pochettino selected the following starting eleven.

28 – Gjodje Petrovic

2- Axel Disasi

5 – Benoit Badiashile

6 – Thiago Silva

26 – Levi Colwill

23- Conor Gallagher

25 – Moises Caicedo

7 – Raheem Sterling

10 – Mykhailo Mudryk

20 – Cole Palmer

15 – Nicholas

On the bench, for the first time, was Christopher Nkunku and as the day developed I found it sad to read how many Chelsea supporters on social media could not spell Nkunku correctly. God knows how they pronounced it.

One dear friend even struggled with Eden Hazard.

Don’t ask.

So, my teleporter not in action, I watched as the Chelsea vs. Sheffield United game kicked off. This was a busy month for us – eight games – and one that could either send us further into misery or give us some degree of hope for the future.

I was happy to see the visitors in red and white striped shirts, a nice nod to a bloody lovely Admiral kit from the mid-‘seventies that my local village team wore for a while.

“COME ON CHELS.”

For the first fifteen minutes, attacking The Shed, there was a very similar vibe to Goodison. Tons of possession, almost total this time, but awful passing and movement in the final third. There were two God-awful corners from the troubled foot of Mykhailo Mudryk, one from each side I think, that failed to clear the first man. My annoyance was bubbling away and starting to grow.

A shot from distance from the busy Conor Gallagher did not test the Blades’ ‘keeper Wes Foderingham, hit centrally, and there were groans. This first real effort took a quarter of an hour to materialise.

The away fans were quiet, perhaps with good reason. I tried to listen in for a rendition of “Greasy Chip Butty” but heard nothing. It never appeared all match long.

On twenty-one minutes, there was a lovely burst inside from Mudryk but his blast high and wide – very wide – drew more groans.

Cameron Archer approached the area down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and I snapped as he sent a curler in on goal, but Petrovic saw it fly wide of his far post. It was a rare attack indeed.

Mudryk then slid past a glut of defenders but on reaching the goal-line, was unable to pick out a ball to anyone in blue. Frustrating stuff.

The home crowd were virtually silent.

Sigh.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Jayden Bogle.

Top marks.

Jackson was naively caught offside. Moans.

This was terrible to watch.

I hated the lack of movement. I hated how Raheem Sterling was often alone in so much space on the right but was often ignored. Nobody played well, despite the sporadic bursts from Mudryk. It annoys me that he has been with us for around ten months and I can’t ever remember seeing him smile. Cole Palmer tried his best with his promptings but runners were immobile.

It was all so frustrating.

On the half-hour, a Sheffield United low cross slid across the six-yard box but thankfully nobody was on hand to apply the necessary touch.

Mudryk went closer. There was genuine applause from us as we saw the ball narrowly miss the target. We are all willing him on. The noise finally came.

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

I joined in.

Moises Caicedo slid in Nicolas Jackson with a fine ball, but Foderingham just beat our man to the ball.

It had been a rotten half of football.

Poor movement, no intensity, a disappointing quality of passing, all played out in front of a docile atmosphere. Despite the manager’s tactical plan, full of stratagems and ruses, there is no legislation for poor passing from the players. I wondered if the ticket man on Fulham Broadway station could perform better.

Down in deepest Somerset, at least Dodge were 2-1 up.

Just before the break, Jackson went wide and there was more genuine applause.

I spoke to Oxford Frank at half-time. It was all negative. A chap nearby called it “dogshit football.”

Soon into the second-half, a fine move allowed Palmer to shoot, but the effort went narrowly wide, deflected for a corner. The crowd in the Matthew Harding made a racket now, and we hoped for more.

Not so long after, Palmer set Sterling off on a fine little run at the heart of the Blades’ defence. He moved wide, to the touchline, then delivered a fantastic ball back into the six-yard box. At last a move that was joined-up. Palmer had continued his run and tapped the ball in.

GET IN.

Lovely noise, lovely celebrations.

And then…the grim spectre of VAR.

Oh do fuck off.

The goal stood.

I didn’t celebrate.

On the hour, just seven minutes later, a couple of crisp passes found Palmer who cut in on his favoured left foot. I expected a shot but the ball was dug towards Sterling. I clicked as Sterling – and Gallagher – were sent flying. A Sheffield United defender – hello Anel Ahmedhodzic, how are you? – awkwardly headed the ball towards the goal and Foderingham scrambled down low to claw the it away. Palmer was on hand to gather and prod the ball square. By this stage, my subconscious mind had already suspected a foul that VAR would get its grubby paws on, so as Jackson tapped in from a yard out, I did not celebrate one iota.

Thanks VAR and all those who decreed it a fucking necessity. You have spoiled my football. It’s choking the life out of the game.

We bellowed “Carefree” – however – like our life depended it.

Then – ugh – VAR was signalled. For a foul, I think.

Overruled.

I did not cheer.

More noise. Phew.

Chelsea 2 Sheffield United 0.

On sixty-seven minutes, Foderingham raced out to thwart the run of Sterling, set free from a great ball from deep from the much improved Caicedo, at last showing us his full arsenal of skills. This was much better now. The shackles were off. Badiashile, Disasi and Caicedo all had good moments. There were surprisingly fast bursts from Disasi and Caicedo.

Excellent.

Enzo replaced Mudryk, who was nicely applauded off.

Just after, Petrovic leapt to his left to palm away a free-kick from someone or other. It was, surely, his only real save of note the entire day.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Auston Trusty.

Bogle and Trusty.

Fucking love it.

As the game continued on, my attention began to wander a little.

Armando Broja replaced Sterling.

We were treated to a lovely little cameo from Enzo over on the far touchline, skipping out of trouble with a few delightful touches and feints.

The visitors managed to prod the ball in but I immediately spotted an offside flag.

Palmer again created havoc in the inside-left channel but Broja managed to miss from right underneath the bar, the miss of the season and all others. There were two more late chances for Broja and Jackson. Even the visitors had a second shot on goal.

Fackinell.

There were two more late substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Again, both were applauded off.

It ended 2-0.

Altogether now…”phew.”

Sadly, Frome Town could not hold on to the lead and sadly drew 2-2. Maybe it was just as well the old teleporter was unavailable after all.

Outside, a mild night, and the visiting fans were in a noisy and belligerent mood.

“Hate fuckin’ Cockneys, United hate fucking Cockneys…”

I wondered what they thought about those from Somerset, Wiltshire and Normandy.

Next up, a League Cup tie at home to Newcastle United on Tuesday.

See you there.

Dedicated to the memory of two fine fathers.

Reg Axon – born one hundred years ago, 16 December 2023.

Walt Sampson – father to Kris, who has come along to games with me in the past, died 22 November 2023.

Tales From The Weekend That Wasn’t

Posted on December 15, 2023 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 10 December 2023.

Despite the feeling of desolation after that terrible performance at Old Trafford, my spirits were raised as the weekend approached. I sincerely hoped that it would be one of the nicest footballing weekends of recent memory.

First up, on the Saturday, my nineteenth Frome Town match of the season, and the biggest game that I will have seen the team play in over fifty-three years of attending games at Badgers Hill. My local team were to play former Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. I had been looking forward to this since the draw was made and I was hoping that an attendance of over 1,500 would be reached.

Then, on the Sunday, my nineteenth Chelsea game of the season and a visit to my favourite away ground for the Everton game at Goodison Park. This looked likely to be my last ever visit, my twenty-third, as the home club were looking to move into their swish new riverside apartment next season. However, with both clubs in the last eight of the League Cup, there was a small chance that Chelsea could be back in the New Year for a semi-final, and an even smaller chance that we would draw Everton away in the FA Cup. However, I have been keeping tabs on the new build at Bramley Moore Dock over the past year and there have been rumours of the stadium not being ready for the start of the 2024/25 season. There has been some debate within the Evertonian ranks about moving in as soon as the stadium is ready, even if it is in the middle of the 2024/25, making use of the extra match-day income as soon as possible. The other view is to delay and move in at the start of the 2025/26 campaign, thus ensuring a grand, and planned, send off for the Grand Old Lady, as Goodison is affectionately known, rather than being unsure when the actual last game would be. I would imagine that would be a nightmare for most Evertonians; not knowing when “the last goodbye” would be.

On the Saturday, I met up with a few pals at “The Vine Tree” pub near the Frome Town ground. This pub used to be run by former Frome Town and Portsmouth player Willie “Farmer” Haines, though my father knew him as “Wyndy” Haines, in the ‘forties. He scored 119 goals in 164 games for Pompey. I mention this in passing as my school friend Richard, who met me and some other Frome mates at this pub, is currently one of two poets in residence at Fratton Park. We joked how he has come a long way from when the two of us used to contribute semi-satirical and semi-humorous pieces to a sixth-form journal forty years ago.

I was buzzing as I walked up the hill to the ground. I could see that the Devon club had brought around three-hundred fans, most of whom were nestled under the roof of the side terrace. Despite an even start, the visitors went 2-0 up in the first-half. Frome Town were then awarded a penalty but Jon Davies saw his low effort saved. In the first few moments of the second-half, Alex Monks hit the post, and we then watched in horror as Torquay scored two more in quick succession. Sam Meakes pulled one back to make it 1-4 and we had a goal disallowed too. It was not to be. The gate was a healthy 1,305 but fell short of my hoped-for target. At times, the atmosphere was a little subdued. In truth, I felt a little underwhelmed. It could have been so much better. Frome failed to score in key moments and paid the price against a far fitter team. But the club are well placed, and could go top of the league very soon.

On the Sunday, I collected PD at 7am and we headed up to Merseyside. Despite the slight chances of further games at Goodison Park, this felt like my last-ever visit, and I promised myself to spend some time circumnavigating the tight streets around the famous old ground – those who mock it shamefully call it Woodison – before taking my place in the Bullens Road Upper. As I drove north, I could not stop myself from humming the “Z Cars” tune to myself.

I also found myself humming the tune of a song that some Evertonian fans taught me in a cab in Manhattan a few years back, after having met them at a Yankees game.

“Oh we hate Bill Shankly and we hate St. John, but most of all we hate Big Ron.

And we’ll hang the Kopites one by one on the banks of the royal blue Mersey.

To hell with Liverpool and Rangers too, throw them all in the Mersey.

And we’ll fight fight fight with all our might for the boys in the royal blue jersey,”

We were parked up at Stanley Park, for the last time perhaps, at around 11.30am. Thankfully, the rain had held off. We walked to the ground with our friends Michelle and Dane who were parked close by. PD went straight in, but I absolutely wanted to linger a while. I began an hour long walk around the stadium, and took – ahem – a few photos. I soon bumped into a chap who would later take his position behind the Park End goal as an official game photographer, and he took a few shots of me outside the Bullens Road. I told him of how these visits resonate for me due to the fact that my father visited Goodison Park in around 1943 while taking part in his RAF training on The Wirral. I walked over and stood under the “Welcome To Goodison” sign and I said that it felt like I was waiting for Dad to walk past.

I was happy with the selection of images that I took. Again the rain held off for the most part. Walking down Goodison Road, the sun came out a lit up the sky. It fired some life into the dark brooding clouds to the north, past the Trinity Statue of Ball, Kendall and Harvey and the red brick of the church of St. Luke’s on the corner of Gwladys Street and Goodison Road.

Goodison is ridiculously photogenic. I think the fact that it is so different to the old sprawling – and huge – Stamford Bridge is a reason that attracts me to it. It absolutely nestles perfectly within the tight terraced houses of Walton. It bleeds history.

Ah, I will miss it.

The rain came and it was time to get inside. As I walked past a bus stop on Walton Lane, I felt an immediate tinge of sadness for the couple of people who were under its roof. I felt sad for them because it meant that they weren’t going to the game. This felt like something of a “eureka” moment for me. Despite my concerns about us getting anything, even a point, from this game, I still felt the absolute need to be here, to be at Goodison, at the game, cheering on the team.

I had a little moment to myself, a second of self-awareness.

“Mark of a true fan, that, Chris lad” I thought to myself.

I inwardly smiled.

My anticlockwise perambulation complete, I headed inside. The security check was easy, no issues with my SLR, and I was in. I asked the second person of the day – a tourist I am sure – to take a photo of me at the bottom of the old stairs leading to the cramped upper concourse. The vast majority of my games at Goodison have been watched from the upper tier. We used to have a decent record at this historic venue, but not of late. It has been a real bogey ground. The game in the latter stages of 2021/22, with Frank Lampard in charge of Everton, almost felt like it would turn out to be my last visit since the home team were in such dire straits. My camera had gone into overdrive on that day, as it had on this visit too.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

I joined PD, Gary and John in the front row of the upper tier. For once, a decent seat; usually we are shunted way to the left, way past the goal-line.

It dawned on me that I have watched us on three of the stadium’s four sides. In fact, I have watched us from five distinct areas.

Park End terrace.

Park End seats.

Main Stand top balcony.

Bullens Road paddock.

Bullens Road upper.

All those memories.

I waited for “Z Cars.”

The team were just finishing off their pre-match shuttles, wearing another ridiculous and busy set of training gear. At least I saw the light green shorts being worn. We have worn black too many times at away games; surely the hardest colour to pick out at pitch level.

The minutes ticked by.

I thought back to my first visit, the cramped subterranean view from the Park End terrace, us in all red, me getting chased around Lime Street by some scallies. I thought back to the last visit, that dire 1-0 win, with Tuchel in charge of us and Lampard in charge of them.

“I’d settle for a draw, Gal.”

The time was ready.

“Z Cars.”

Magnificent. Gets me every time.

The team? Definitely a 4-3-3.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

It felt really odd to see us attacking our end in the first-half at Goodison. I am not so sure that I have ever seen this before. My first thoughts were centered on a potentially decent battle that might be played out between Armando Broja and the rather lanky and gangly Everton defender Jarrad Branthwaite, a kid with a surname out of the nineteenth century and a first name out of the twenty-first century. In truth, after a few early runs, our centre-forward had a quiet first-half. That battle-royale never really materialised.

It says so much of our recent form that, genuinely, it seemed that we were playing more cohesively than at Old Trafford on the previous Wednesday. We were keeping the ball, and Enzo seemed to be linking things together. He was having a more influential game. I was worryingly content. But then as I watched, I realised that our chances were hardly causing Jordan Pickford – the same name discrepancy as Jarrad Branthwaite – any issues. There were two identikit shots, curling up and away, from Cole Palmer, who was also booked for taking a dive inside the Everton box. Another shot from Palmer tested Pickford but the ‘keeper saved well.

Mudryk, down below us in the area where Eden Hazard once toyed with Everton full-backs, was an exasperating mix of speed and indecision.

The Everton fans were ridiculously quiet, especially in the Park End to our left. There had been multi-banner displays in the Gwladys Street before the game condemning the Premier League’s decision to dock the club ten points, and I expected a feverish hotbed of support, maybe like that game in May 2022, with the fans galvanised together in defiance. What I saw, and heard, was nothing of the sort.

The entire Park End was seated and silent.

Halfway through the half, an Everton volley whistled past the post and we heard them for the first time.

“We forgot that you were here…”

On the half-hour, a calamity for James, replaced by Levi Colwill. Marc Cucarella switched to the right flank. We quickly discussed Reece James and the views were not favourable. In short, he has been way off his form of even two years ago of late. Sigh.

On thirty-seven minutes, Mudryk was super-fast but Broja could not finish, his shot going over from a tight angle.

And that was it.

As the second-half began, I said to Gary that I couldn’t see either side scoring. With that, Sanchez got down remarkably well to turn an effort from Dwight McNeil around the post. The home fans were warmed by some more adventurous play from their team.

On fifty-four minutes, a quick break. McNeil to Dominic Calvert Lewin, well saved by Sanchez, but Abdoulaye Doucoure slotted home the rebound.

Noise now.

Fackinell.

“E – ver – ton, E – ver – ton.”

We replied with a loud “Carefree”.

Game on? Maybe.

We dominated possession, but yet again had no cutting edge. A free-kick from Palmer just outside the box did not trouble Pickford.

On sixty-six minutes, a double substitution.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Broja.

God knows what the formation was now, but Sterling was wide right. Our final ball was always poor, but our movement off the ball was far worse.

We were treated to the king of shoulder charges by Cucarella down below us. His quality might not always be there, but his commitment this season is much much better.

A new song from the Park End, presumably aimed at their noisy neighbours at the top of the hill, and a line about “sticking your trophies up your arse” was followed by a rendition of a rejuvenated song from the ‘sixties…

“We are the Goodison Gang.”

The Chelsea support was quieter now. The mood was grey.

On eighty-four minutes, more substitutions.

The injured Sanchez was replaced by Djordje Petrovic, a debut. Ian Maatsen for Cucarella.

In injury time, a corner from down below us was punched out by the debutant ‘keeper but as the ball broke to an Everton player, I uttered the words “here we go.”

I must have had a sixth sense.

Substitute Lewis Dobbin rifled the ball home.

Fackinell.

I felt desolate. I stood silent. Many Chelsea drifted away.

The whistle blew and I was left with a dull ache inside.

I let the crowds leave. A few more final photos.

So, Goodison, is that it then?

Well, it would seem not. Just before I began typing this up, it was announced that Everton will remain at Goodison next season and move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025. It looks like I have one more tale from the Grand Old Lady to compose next year after all.

It had been an ultimately unrewarding weekend.

Frome Town FA Trophy glory on Saturday? No.

A win at my last visit to Goodison Park on Sunday? No.

So much for those two game nineteens.

See you at Stamford Bridge against Sheffield United.

Saturday

Sunday

Tales From The Loyal Three Thousand

Posted on December 9, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2023.

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

That was the plan.

And then Frome Town buggered it all up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kim!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top marks.

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

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

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

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

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

The current United team is not known in my household.

The game began.

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

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

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

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

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

GET IN.

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

It was still 0-0.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er…what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy game.

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

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

YES!

We went doo-fucking-lally.

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

There was a song for Palmer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lower tier of the Stretty.

Good God.

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

Modern football, eh?

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

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

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

“The size of your shorts, Shaw.”

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

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

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

2-1. Bollocks.

Two goals for McTominay. Bollocks.

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

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

Garnacho, with an instinctive angled shot, wide.

Fackinell.

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

Reece James blazed over from an angle.

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

Oh God.

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

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

No hope.

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

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

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

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yeah, Scott bloody McTominay.

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

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

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

“I’ll take a draw now.”

It is becoming our mantra this season.

I eventually made it home at 2.50am.

There is no punchline.

TEAMS

CORNER

STAND

YELLOW

STEPS

THEM

ALONE

OUTSIDE

> dedicated to the loyal three thousand

Tales From A Ball Of Confusion

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Chris Axon

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

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

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

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

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

Rest In Peace.

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

“I’ll be happy with a draw mate.”

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

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

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

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

No Cole Palmer.

Three former Brighton players; Sanchez, Colwill, Caicedo.

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

“Only Ivanovic was any good…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s code for another shit corner…”

One or two of these missed their intended targets.

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

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

GET IN.

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

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

2-0, oh my bloody goodness.

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

Pah.

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

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

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

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

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

It was deathly quiet.

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

Bollocks.

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

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

The away fans had found their voices.

“Albion, Albion…Albion, Albion.”

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

The Brighton lot were happy.

“Cheerio, Palace scum.”

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

Fackinell.

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

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

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

And it is a great question.

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

Now, it’s a little more blurred.

But it’s still Chelsea.

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

The second-half began.

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

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

You know how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

I took a photograph.

Mudryk’s legs crumpled.

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

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

VAR was called into action.

The nerds at Stockley Park were not sure.

Back it went to the referee Craif Pawson.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

Enzo.

Goal.

A roar from me.

A roar from everyone.

A slide into the corner down below us.

Snap.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

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

The chants in support of the team grew louder.

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

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

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

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

Armando Broja for Mudryk.

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

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

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

Ten minutes of extra time were signalled.

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

Oh God.

The rain was lashing down now.

The minutes ticked by.

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

6 minutes.

8 minutes.

Another save down low from Sanchez.

10 minutes.

A cross from Adingra was slashed in.

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

What? Why? Who? Where? How?

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

VAR.

Another delay.

The referee went back to the TV screen.

Another delay.

I was fearing the worst.

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

I thought it was a penalty that he had signalled.

So did the Brighton fans who roared.

My heart sank.

But then a roar from the home fans.

What?

No penalty.

What the fuck has happened to our game?

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

Posted on November 30, 2023 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

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

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

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

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

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might have noticed.

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

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

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

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

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

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

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

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

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

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

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

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

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

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

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

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

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

The game began.

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

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

“In a Lamborghini…”

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

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

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

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

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

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

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

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

It had been a decent enough half.

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

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

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

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

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

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

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

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

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

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

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

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

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

“Don’t let him come inside.”

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

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

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

“Terrible second-half.”

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

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

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

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

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.

Tales From One To Remember

Posted on November 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 November 2023.

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

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

But I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nevin’s run.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good grief.

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

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

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

After, a roar.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Us?

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

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

The game began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chelsea, the Matthew Harding, responded with –

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

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

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

Who? What? Where? When? How?

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

Chelsea 0 Manchester City 1.

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

I said to Clive “Zola would have scored.”

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

Royal Blue 1 Sky Blue 1.

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

Munich & Porto 2 Istanbul 1.

GET IN!

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

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

Thiago 2 Bernardo 2.

Oh boy.

It had been a relentless first-half.

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

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

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

Celery 2 Bananas 3.

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

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

Mauricio Pochettino made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

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

The place erupted once again.

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

Sean Lock 3 Eddie Large 3.

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

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

So loud.

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

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

“Ooh, Thiago Silva.”

His smile was wide; a great sight.

…inside my head : “Fuck Arsenal.”

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

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

The game moved into its final minutes.

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

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

“Oh God. Not even a point.”

What a bitter pill.

Blue Flag 3 Blue Moon 4.

Armando Broja replaced Caicedo.

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

“Come on Chels.”

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

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

“Come on Cole. Come on my son.”

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

What a fucking game of football.

Palmer & Sterling 4 Ake & Kovacic 4.

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

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

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

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

2007/8 : Chelsea 4 Aston Villa 4

2007/8 : Tottenham 4 Chelsea 4

2008/9 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4

2019/20 : Chelsea 4 Ajax 4

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

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

My favourites?

Palmer – fantastic, the future.

Cucarella – another blinder.

Sterling – sensational, please keep it up.

Gallagher – tireless, relentless, a leader.

James – strong, resolute, back to his best.

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

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

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

See you there.

Tales From Tottenham Away, Love It!

Posted on November 11, 2023 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 6 November 2023.

Not much happened in this game, eh?

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

Let’s go.

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

Tottenham away though. This was a bloody test alright.

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

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

We were on our way.

“Take a draw now.”

“Be happy with nil-nil.”

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

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

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

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

Won : 9

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

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

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

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

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

“What the fook is going on?”

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

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

There is always a frisson of tension for this game.

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

I could not help but think one word.

“Tourists.”

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

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

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

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

The kick-off approached.

Nerves? Yeah, just a bit.

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

“Lights On.”

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

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

Good grief.

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

“We’re Loving Big Ange Instead.”

Barry Manilow. Robbie Williams.

For Fuck Sake.

But then the mood changed.

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

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

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Our seats were filled.

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

At 8pm, the game began.

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

“Get closer, get closer.”

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

Fucksake.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Only six minutes had gone.

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

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

Noise.

Oh fuck.

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

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

Please. Please. Please.

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

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

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

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

“Oh when the Spurs…”

“Glory Glory…”

“Yid Army…”

Yawn.

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

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

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

GET IN.

How we celebrated.

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

Bollocks.

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

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

We dominated the play with home attacks rare.

The Chelsea support was roused.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

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

I uttered the immortal words :

“Hit it you fucker!”

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

Wild, and I mean wild, celebrations.

YES!

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

Oh boy.

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

Chelsea 1 Tottenham 1.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t watch that. We’re off.”

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

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

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

Nerds are taking over the game.

Fuck them.

A substitution at the break :

Marc Cucarella for Colwill.

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

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

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

But we did create chances.

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

A shot from our Reece; wide.

Balls out of midfield into space were lazy.

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

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

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

On the hour, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Enzo.

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

Now we exploded.

GET IN.

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

YES.

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

We waited.

Goal.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

“Told you he would score, John.”

Calvin started to initiate a song.

“Spurs. Spurs are falling apart again.”

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

Malo Gusto for James.

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

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

I spotted another flag.

Offside.

Fackinell.

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

“Fantastic save!”

I don’t think I noticed Les replace Raheem.

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

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 3.

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

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

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

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4.

Bloody hell.

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

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

I grasped Lee’s hand.

“So good to see you mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Won : 3

Drew : 0

Lost : 1

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

Won : 10

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

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

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

The residual Chelsea support gave it a special ending :

“We’re loving Chelsea instead.”

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

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

It had been a great night.

GAME

FACES

Tales From My Blackburn Scrapbook

Posted on November 4, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 1 November 2023.

Treacherous waters ahead…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blackburn Rovers, eh? It has been a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can stick George Graham up your arse.”

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

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.15pm.

Still no rain.

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

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

Chris : “Good luck.”

Mark : “Not expecting much.”

Chris : “That’s OK. Neither am I.”

Good God, that Rovers away kit was shite.

Us?

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

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Ugochukwu – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

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

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

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

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

It’s their thing.

The game started.

Still no rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I snapped with my SLR.

In it flew.

Who was the scorer? Ah, the returnee.

Badia – Badia – Bing.

We were 1-0 up.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

The Matthew Harding reprised one of its current songs.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

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

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

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

At 9pm, as PD predicted, rain.

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

We improved in the second-half.

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

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

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

Get in.

[thinking : “Vale away next please”]

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

What’s that saying about cutting cloth accordingly?

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

Yes. Absolutely.

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

A couple of substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

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

Two more substitutions.

Moises Caicedo for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Palmer.

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

It stayed 2-0.

A much better second-half, with Sterling excellent.

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

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

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

Next up…groan…Tottenham away on Monday evening.

See you there.

1988/89