Category Archives: Season 2024-2025

Tales From Another Chelsea Win

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 26 April 2025.

This is a game that I might not have attended.

Had Frome Town needed points against AFC Totton for survival in Step Three of the non-league pyramid, there was a chance that I would be missing this Chelsea match. However, my hometown team’s presence in the Southern League Premier South was extinguished on Easter Saturday after the briefest of one season stays and so I was not required to make that heart-wrenching decision.

Chelsea won again.

It was a phrase that I hoped to be reporting after the game.

What of this day, then?

We didn’t really appreciate the 12.30pm kick-off as it would mean that the pre-match would be ridiculously squeezed into a ninety-minute period before 11.30am. Everton, revitalised under the returning David Moyes, would prove a difficult nut to crack, but after a little run of four unbeaten games, there was hope that Chelsea would prevail. Suddenly, a top five or six or seven finish was looking likely, despite my recent protestation of us finishing eighth.

I was up at 5.45am. I always aim to get to PD’s house in Frome bang on 7am and I am annoyed if I am even a minute late. I left my house at 6.43am. I still had to fuel up, but I shot over to Nunney Catch to do so and pulled up at his house in Frome at 6.59am.

Result.

After the game, the instruction from PD was to get him back to Frome as soon as possible so he could then drive down to a night of merriment in Burnham-on-Sea where he owns a static caravan.

“Should be back by 6pm, mate.”

To get to London as soon as possible, we ate our McBreakfast on the hoof to save precious minutes. We noted heavier-than-usual traffic going into the city at 9am. This was a very busy weekend in the capital; not only were Chelsea at home, but both FA Cup semi-finals were scheduled, the Eubank vs. Benn fight was taking place at Tottenham on Saturday night and the London Marathon was on the Sunday. However, I dropped the lads off on the Fulham High Street at around 9.45am. So far, so good.

I drove up from Fulham into Hammersmith and parked on Charleville Road once again, and then quickly walked to West Kensington to catch a tube down to Putney Bridge. I walked into “The Eight Bells” at 10.25am, aware that I had probably lost my usual seat at the table with Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky, P-Diddy and Jimmy the Greek.

Not to worry. I walked over to chat to two lads who I had invited along to the packed pub for their first-ever Chelsea pre-match. I have known Philip, from Baltimore, as a Chelsea mate on Facebook for a few years, and he was perched at a high table with his good friend Douglas. We chatted for the best part of an hour about all things Chelsea first and foremost, all things Baltimore, all things Philadelphia – ahead of the two games in June – and all things sport. We have a few mutual friends and so that is always nice.

The two lads loved the cosy intimacy of the pub, and we were able to regale each other of our Chelsea stories.

Phil became a Chelsea supporter right after the 1997 FA Cup Final triumph, and this resonated with me since I became hooked while at my village school around the time of the 1970 FA Cup win. I told them of how my fanaticism at an early age was remarkably intense. I told the story of me, at the age of five or six, receiving a Liverpool duffel bag from my paternal grandfather and being mortified that he had not realised my Chelsea fascination. I remember the annoyance of both parents too. Phil had a ticket for the Shed Lower during the 2019/20 season but never attended because of COVID. This would be his second Chelsea game in London, however, after the Palace semi-final in 2023. This was a game that I, ironically, did not attend as I was not allowed in with my SLR camera.

Douglas was out in Ghana in around 2006 when he became fascinated with that area’s love of Chelsea, via Michael Essien, his favourite Chelsea player, and so he soon chose us as his club. This would be his first-ever Chelsea game in the UK, though he might have seen us play a game in the US.

It was horrible to hear that both had to resort to expensive tickets in West View instead of watching their first-ever Chelsea games at HQ in the more traditional strongholds of the MHL or The Shed.

It seemed that there were coincidences throughout our chit-chat. Phil and I found out that we follow the same NHL team, the Vancouver Canucks (me very loosely), and that Douglas and I share the same birthday.

However, despite the three of us getting along so well, I did warn them.

“If we lose today, you’re not fucking coming back.”

They set off early, and then the rest of us headed up to Stamford Bridge around twenty minutes later.

I stood at the CFCUK stall for a few moments with a few acquaintances, good loyal and friendly Chelsea supporters all, as Kerry Dixon walked by. He wasn’t feeling too bright so was off home after a little spell with the hospitality team. He spotted a few faces and approached us.

“Ah, this is the hierarchy, is it?”

“More like the lowerarchy, Kerry” I replied.

With that, I took a few photos of the bustling scene outside the ground, hid my SLR, and entered via my usual “lucky turnstile.”

I was in at just gone midday.

On this occasion, Alan was up in Barrow following his Bromley in their last away game of this successful first season in the Football League. He had sold his ticket on the exchange to a lad from Latvia, proudly wearing a Chelsea trackie-top, and his sister was momentarily in my seat. Her ticket was towards the top of the stand. We moved things around and Clive took the spare seat in front so they could sit together. I sat next to PD who was eventually in Alan’s seat.

PD was the spectator-equivalent of an inverted full-back.

Rob told me that he was off to see Walton & Hersham directly after our game, another “double-header” successfully navigated. His team are, of course, in the Southern League Premier South, just like Frome for this season.

It was another cracking day in London. I looked over at the three-thousand Everton fans and wondered if this visit would end up following a well-worn pattern.

Everton’s last league win at Stamford Bridge was on 26 November 1994.

Should we win, again, today, it would be the thirtieth consecutive year of being unbeaten against them.

“No pressure, Chelsea.”

The teams entered the pitch.

No flames but flags in The Shed.

Us?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fenandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I posted on Facebook : “I’m playing right-back next week.”

The game began and I wondered where on earth the inspiration for Everton’s horrible dark grey and yellow kit originated.

Right then, we attacked The Shed.

In possession, we became a back three of Cucurella, Colwill and Our Trev moving over to the right, with Moises Caicedo joining up with Enzo and Lavia in the middle, and God Help Everton.

Joking apart, we began well and apart from an Everton free kick in the first few minutes it was all Chelsea for the first twenty minutes. Apart from a noisy flurry at the start from Everton, their support soon quietened down and they hardly sung a note.

On nine minute, a great early ball from Levi Colwill found Cole Palmer in an advanced role but he could not direct a shot on goal. I love us mixing it up occasionally, to keep the opposing defence on their toes. Pedro Neto was staying wide, and I loved it. On thirteen minutes, a positive run from Noni Madueke into a good position but Jordan Pickford was able to save at full stretch, the ball tipped around the far post.

The noise from both sets of fans had quietened by now.

We dominated possession and tried to open up the Everton defence. Virtually all their grey-shirted players were behind the ball, and space was a premium. I wondered if we were in for another hour or so of tedious chess play.

On twenty-five minutes, a free kick from the right and Pickford flapped and the clearance was poor but Marc Cucurella’s bouncing effort went just wide.

On twenty-seven minutes, Everton tried to build a rare attack, but a through ball aimed at Beto was intercepted well by Our Trev who pushed the ball to Enzo. He spotted the unmarked Jackson, left up field after an attack, and in space. The striker received the ball, turned, and with nobody coming to close him down, drilled a low shot into the goal. The dive from Pickford was in vain. To my joy, I was right behind the shot. I saw it all.

It really was a stunningly simple goal, but very well executed by the often-abused Jackson.

He ran off to celebrate and the Stamford Bridge crowd purred their approval.

Alan, in Barrow : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, in The Sleepy Hollow : “COMLD.”

And all was well with the world.

The game returned to its normal pattern, but I commented to Paul that “we have played worse than this during the season.”

It was decent stuff. Noni and Neto were causing Everton some concerns out wide, Enzo was aggressive and involved, while the returning Romeo Lavia was at his understated best, a modern day Johnny B. Cucurella was as playing to his usual high standards and Caicedo was Caicedo, probably my player of the year. However, Palmer seemed to be struggling.

I said to Paul that if someone, new to our team and watching for the first time, was told that one of our players was being heralded as one of the best young players in the world before Christmas, not many would guess it was our number twenty.

In injury-time, a header that ended up going ridiculously wide seemed like Everton’s first attack in ages, maybe since 1994.

At the break, I remembered two fantastic moments.

Firstly, the Everton player Iliman Ndiaye bamboozled his markers with incredible fleet-footed skill. The ball was touched quickly between feet, down near the touchline in front of the West Stand, and it was an impressive a piece of skullduggery that I have seen for a while.

Secondly, not so far away from that part of the pitch, the ball was played quickly out of defence to Pedro Neto and he had the defender at his mercy. He was running at pace; the defender was back-peddling and was completely unsure which way Neto would push the ball. As a former right winger, I really appreciated that moment. Neto had the defender just where he wanted him with acres of space to run into. He tapped the ball a few times, just to prolong the agony. A quick shimmy one way, the ball went the other, and it was just like me against Gary Witcombe in a house football match in early 1978 all over again.

Bliss.

At half-time, my good friend Pete – from London, then San Francisco, now Seattle, I met him in Los Angeles in 2007 – came down for a few words and we made plans to see each other in Philly in June.

The game re-started.

What looked like a rotten corner from Neto on the far side, was rescued by Madueke at the near post and he almost turned and screwed a shot in, but Pickford saved with his feet.

On fifty-three minutes, a poorly executed back pass to Pickford saw Jackson one on one but Pickford was just able to clear in time. Just after, a fine Madueke cross into the danger area, but no Chelsea player was close enough to apply the coup de grace. Then just after this, Chalobah glanced a header just wide.

On fifty-three minutes, it was time for the much-maligned Robert Sanchez to shine. Beto was played in after an errant pass out of defence by Colewill. The Everton striker shot low from an angle but, thankfully, Sanchez dropped low to his right and kept it out at full stretch.

On sixty-seven minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia.

On sixty-six minutes, Reece to right back, Moises to the base of the midfield.

Once we had the ball, “budge up.”

A shot from Idrissa Gueye was straight at Sanchez. From his throw out, Caicedo ran strong and long at the defence, with defenders snapping at his heels, but his shot was wide. From the resulting corner, Cucurella forced a save from Pickford, the ‘keeper reaching up to gather.

On seventy-seven minutes, Madueke went down after a coming together of bodies, and we all thought he was play-acting. He was motionless for a while but then returned to the action. Then, within seconds, he was running at pace at the Everton defence and forced Pickford to make another fine, sprawling save.

Pickford had to save again moments later, this time keeping out Cucurella’s header from the resulting corner.

Everton’s support was roused by an upturn in their play, and we could hear them again. To be truthful, Stamford Bridge wasn’t noisy at all during this lunch-time game. During this second-half, we seemed to be a lot more sloppy, and made a few silly errors. We begged for a calming second goal.

Jackson thought he that had scored but it was chalked off for offside by VAR, no complaints.

On seventy-eight minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Madueke on the left.

On eighty-six minutes, another fantastic save as Everton went close with a volleyed, side-footed effort from Dwight McNeil.

Two late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Jackson.

There was another fine save from Sanchez from Youssef Chermiti in the closing moments.

One last free kick from Everton, a strong leap from Reece James, the ball was headed away, and that was that.

Chelsea won again.

“It’s a bloody good job they haven’t got a striker…”

There was heavy traffic as I headed up the North End Road and made my way home. All eyes were on the clock.

Returning home, I was to learn some fantastic news regarding two Chelsea mates.

Ian, who often drinks in The Eight Bells, was at Brackley Town for the day and saw his team beat Kidderminster Harriers 5-0 to gain promotion to the National League, the much-vaunted Step One. Like me, he had a tough decision – Brackley or Chelsea – but was rewarded.

Leggo, my mate from 1984/85, was at Bedford Town and saw his home team win 2-0 against Stourbridge and gain promotion from the Southern League Central to the National League South. It is worth noting that both Bedford and Frome were promoted from Step 4 last season and while Frome have sadly returned, Bedford have moved on. It’s an incredible story. Also, the club survived a belittling take-over bid from the moneyed, yet uncredible, Real Bedford in the past week or so.

Elsewhere, Rob’s Walton & Hersham beat Swindon Supermarine 4-1, and as for Frome Town, we lost 0-4.

To complete my review of the non-league scene, I have something a lot more local.

While Frome Town lost 1-0 to Weston-super-Mare in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, my village team Mells & Vobster United won the Somerset Junior Cup Final against fierce local rivals Coleford Athletic 3-1 during the week.

Oh, and I reached Frome at 5.58pm.

Chelsea vs. Everton :

1995/96            Drew 0-0

1996/97            Drew 2-2

1997/98            Won 2-0

1998/99            Won 3-1

1999/2000      Drew 1-1

2000/01            Won 2-1

2001/02            Won 3-0

2002/03            Won 4-1

2003/04            Drew 0-0

2004/05            Won 1-0

2005/06            Won 3-0

2006/07            Drew 1-1

2007/08            Drew 1-1

2008/09            Drew 0-0

2009/10            Drew 3-3

2010/11            Drew 1-1

2011/12            Won 3-1

2012/13            Won 2-1

2013/14            Won 1-0

2014/15            Won 1-0

2015/16            Drew 3-3

2016/17            Won 5-0

2017/18            Won 2-0

2018/19            Drew 0-0

2019/20            Won 4-0

2020/21            Won 2-0

2021/22            Drew 1-1

2022/23            Drew 2-2

2023/24            Won 6-0

2024/25            Won 1-0

Tales From Chelsea At Fulham

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2025.

We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.

The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.

My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.

Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.

It was expected, but still painful.

However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.

On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :

“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”

This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.

Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.

It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.

I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.

Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.

We very rarely drink in Chelsea.

We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.

We very rarely drink in Kensington.

We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.

Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.

Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.

“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”

Chelsea is a Fulham club.

To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.

On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.

Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.

The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.

This was nice.

My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.

From Phulham to Philly.

Phackinell.

While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.

At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.

We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.

Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.

The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.

It was all very Fulhamish.

DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.

“Only a pound.”

There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.

I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”

And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”

There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.

Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.

Where does the time go, eh?

I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.

I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.

The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.

Modern football eh?

The teams lined up.

Fulham in white / black / white.

Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.

In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.

Eventually, I worked it out.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.

Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.

Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.

Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.

In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.

There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.

In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.

“It’s Salomon!”

On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.

“Here we go, goal.”

And I watched the ball find the far corner.

Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.

The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.

Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.

Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.

“Stupidity!”

We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.

Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.

On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.

Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.

“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.

Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.

Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.

Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.

Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.

All other mammals, plus equal votes.

Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.

Being rather silly and porridge oats.”

Oh boy.

“Reasons to be cheerful?”

I should have got back in to bed.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”

There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.

In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.

Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.

As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.

Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.

After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.

The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.

Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.

On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.

His song was aired again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.

Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.

There weren’t any.

He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.

What a fantastic attitude.

All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.

Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.

In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.

Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.

A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.

The net rippled.

The Chelsea end erupted again.

I punched the air.

I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.

What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.

One song dominated now.

“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”

Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.

I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.

At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.

Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.

I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.

Up The Fucking Dodge.

Tales From A Night Of Ultras And Anti-Football

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Chelsea vs. Legia Warsaw : 17 April 2025.

For a long time, it looked as though I would not be able to attend the return leg against Legia Warsaw at Stamford Bridge. I had been selected to attend Bristol Crown Court for jury service from Monday 7 April, potentially until Friday 25 April, and if I couldn’t go, neither could Paul nor Parky. If my attendance at court on the day of the game was required, our three tickets worth £85 would be wasted.

Thankfully, on the Wednesday, I was released from duty, and I was able to walk, a free man.

I worked from 6am on the day of the game, but due to a variety of problems, I couldn’t collect the two of them until just before 2.30pm. With another 8pm kick off ahead, this would be another long day for me. I was up at 4.45am and I predicted getting home around 1am.

Despite the late start, I still dropped the lads near “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. They were happy; they went off for a few scoops with Salisbury Steve, while I drove away to park further north in my usual spot just off Lillee Road.

On the slow drive through Fulham, I spotted some Legia supporters outside “The Brown Cow” pub on the Fulham Road, the first sighting of the day. First a girl in her late teens wearing a replica shirt, then two chaps with two young boys, the boys wearing Legia shirts, the two grown-ups not. I presumed that they were headed to the game.

There had been a lot of talk in the media, and on social media, about the presence of Legia supporters in and around Stamford Bridge on this night. Both Chelsea Football Club and the Fulham Police were, shall we say, concerned.

Chelsea had been on the front foot and offered Legia a much-reduced allocation of around 1,000 instead of 3,000. Legia retaliated with an allocation for us of just 740. Thankfully I heard of no trouble in Poland. It seemed that the local police kept the away support well protected. Additionally, despite a once fearsome reputation, the supporters following Chelsea in Poland were hardly battle-hardened hooligans. I suspect that the locals soon realised this and opted to give us an easy ride, a free pass. There would have been no kudos in attacking our – aging – band of supporters.

But that’s not to say that the game at Stamford Bridge would go without incident. I believe that ticket sales were restricted to people who had previously purchased seats this season, though of course there is a rather fluid purchasing pattern evolving of late. Touts who masquerade as Chelsea supporters would be purchasing tickets to then sell on to any Tomasz, Dariusz or Henrik.

As I drove past Fulham Police Station, I spotted a couple of police vans heading up to Stamford Bridge. I wondered what checks would be in place on the Fulham Road and at the turnstiles before the game.

I had a flight of fancy and wondered if there might well be a re-enactment of the famous scene in “The Great Escape” involving Gordon Jackson as he boards a train, and a sly German soldier says “good…luck” but this time the conversation takes place a few yards before tickets are due to be scanned around the Stamford Bridge stadium. I wondered if the phrase “powodzenia” would be answered with a reply in Polish, a surprised smile, a wink or befuddlement and a stony silence.

After parking at the same spot as on Sunday, I quickly visited “Koka” on the North End Road and gobbled down a four-cheese pizza. While I was eating, a medley of ‘eighties songs were being aired in the restaurant.

Which brings us nicely to 1984/85.

On Tuesday 16 April 1985, Chelsea played a home game against Aston Villa. I spent the day in my home village in Somerset and did not attend. My diary tells me that I hoped for a gate of 16,000. In the end, just 13,267 attended. We won 3-1 with goals from John Bumstead, Mickey Thomas and a Villa own goal. Our form was starting to improve after a poor month of results.

I rolled into the pub at 6pm and stayed until just after 7pm. On the Tuesday night, I had gambled and booked flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw for the potential final in this competition. Salisbury Steve had already booked seats a while ago, and now PD, Parky and yours truly were on the same flights. Should we reach the final, we would get to Wroclaw at just after midnight on the Tuesday and would leave at 10.35am on the Thursday, a stay of three nights. The price was just £105.

I feel that as a fan base we have an odd relationship with this new-fangled Europa Conference competition. When it first appeared in 2021/22, there was general scorn from us and from elsewhere in the football world. This seemed like a needless competition. Should teams finishing far from the top of their leagues really be rewarded with participation in a pan-European competition that would add games and travel to an already busy schedule?

I thought it too pathetic for words.

And yet, you look at the teams that have won it; Roma (under Mourinho, oh the irony of him poo-pooing teams playing in the Europa League, let alone this…), West Ham United, Olimpiacos.

Big clubs for sure.

When we qualified for this competition at the very end of last season, my main thoughts were : firstly, new cities, new stadia, new countries, new experiences. Secondly, I wasn’t massively bothered about winning it. In essence, it offered some potentially new life experiences, and I am all for that. And then I thought of our “we’ve won it all” boast, and I realigned my thoughts about winning another competition. Yes, let’s win it.

Almaty in Kazakhstan in December was a bloody magnificent experience, no doubt, but I have shied away for other destinations thus far. In the pub, we discussed heading over to Vienna for a semi-final against Rapid even though I have visited the city before, but Stockholm didn’t thrill us too much. Expenditure-wise, I have the two games in Philly to take care of, so this has been a major factor in me attending just one away game in Europe thus far.

The pub was quiet, and when we arrived at Fulham Broadway just before 7.30pm, it was as quiet as I have known on a matchday for years. On the walk up the Fulham Road, a group of around thirty policemen were assembled in three lines near the Oswald Stoll. That’s a rare sight indeed at Chelsea these days. There were more dotted around and about.

We had seen a glimpse of the team in the pub, and considering we were 3-0 up from the first leg, the strength of the team surprised me. It certainly felt odd to see Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson in the starting eleven, especially since they had started against Ipswich Town.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Dewsbury-Hall

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Jackson

I was in at 7.35pm to the sound of “Our House” by Madness, a lovely welcoming song. Above, not a single cloud in the sky. Opposite my corner, around a thousand away supporters were assembled, mainly in the upper tier of The Shed, but a little group of around thirty in the lower tier. The balcony wall was full of flags. Their dress code was black, white, grey. I soon came to the conclusion that those five Legia fans outside “The Brown Cow” were not in this section.

As kick-off approached “Blue Day” was played and then at 7.50pm, the Legia ultras, who had been virtually silent until then, started. For just a choir of just one thousand strong, they made a massive noise.

Then came “Blue Is The Colour” and I found myself joining in automatically, as if I could not stop myself. However – correct me if I am wrong – it seemed too short, an abridged version perhaps.

Then “Parklife”, then “Liquidator” – and this seemed like we were returning to our roots.

In the East Stand there were huge swathes of seats unused, the section of the upper tier towards The Shed especially. There were clear gaps in all other parts of the stadium too. What was the reason for this? An incorrect pricing structure? Were Chelsea fans content we would get through so there was little point in attending? A stringent admission process for this one game? One game too many?

The result was a surreal, odd, feel to the game.

European nights at Stamford Bridge in April and May used to be the stuff of legend.

That Hughes winner against Vicenza, the place wet but rocking. Going three-up against Barcelona in 2000. The tense struggle against Liverpool in 2005 and then in so many subsequent games. Iniesta in 2009. Barcelona again and a Drogba goal in 2012. A penalty shoot-out against Frankfurt in 2019. The list of games goes on.

This seemed like it was a lot less important. And European games should not be like this. These nights should be the pinnacle. And there lies the problem with the UEFA Europa Conference.

Dear UEFA,

Less is more.

More is shite.

Thank you.

Chris.

We attacked The Shed, and within two minutes, there was a horrible repeat of Sunday’s start. Cole Palmer was sent through, one on one with the ‘keeper. I sensed that he took a breath and relaxed – a good sign – but his effort was off target, and I murmured “here we go again.”

Not so long after, Palmer headed at the Warsaw ‘keeper Vladan Kovacevic after a shot from Christopher Nkunku was saved.

Alas, on ten minutes, a Legia player was able to run unchallenged and played in Tomas Pekhart. He pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen, no doubt inviting a lunge, and the result was a clear penalty.

In it went, despite our ‘keeper getting a good hand to it down low.

Bollocks.

I was surprised that there was no noise nor activity from anywhere in the stadium apart from the thousand in the far corner and a group of around a hundred in the middle tier of the West Stand, an area that is often used by visiting European teams. I guess it housed the Legia club officials, associates and executive club members. There didn’t appear to be any Legia fans in The Sleepy Hollow, though it would have been probably difficult to tell.

After the goal celebrations had ended, virtually all of the Legia fans – supporters, ultras, call them what you will – took their shirts off. Soon, the whole away section had turned pink, coloured with occasional deep blue ink.

I remember Leeds United having a fad for taking their shirts off at half-time at games a few decades ago, but this was clearly on a different scale.

The ultras are an odd phenomenon in Europe. The Legia lot put on a show at the first leg last week, and my friend Jaro – who grew up in Poland as a Legia fan but is now solidly Chelsea – was able to attend the game. He explained to me that the Legia ultras see themselves as the dominant partner in the player / fan relationship, that it is all about them, and woe betide any Legia fan who does not share their views.

It was so noticeable that the Legia support was 99.9% male.

Although impressive to watch, I am not much of a fan of the highly choreographed routines that they, and other ultra groups elsewhere, put on each game. Often, they ignore the actual game taking place in front of them. Capos will often turn their backs to the action and face their disciples. It is all about them.

I class this as backward thinking.

I much prefer our organic way of supporting the team in the UK, and the fact that we tend to favour more spontaneous, and humorous, shows of affection. We focus on the players and the game, and our chants rise and fall accordingly. If we hit a poor match, and the players need us. We get behind them.

Or we used to. In theory.

And humour is such a huge part of our game.

The reaction of The Shed to the sight of the pre-planned removal of shirts on the tenth minute of “get your tits out for the lads” is a great example of this.

On the pitch, there was nothing to get us excited. We were struggling. Sensing the need for some sort of positive input, Alan reached for the Maynards wine gums and shared them out.

On nineteen minutes, a dart behind our lines and the dangerous Ryoya Morishita drove a shot just past the post.

This was not going according to plan. We were poor. The passing was slow, nobody was moving for each other, the play was all in front of the Legia team.

However, on thirty-three minutes, Jadon Sancho advanced down the right and played a nice ball in to the feet of Marc Cucurella who easily stabbed the ball home.

I sat.

It was my least enthusiastic response to a goal for years.

Still, it was now 1-1 on the night and we were 4-1 up on aggregate.

With Rapid Vienna 1-0 up from their first game, it looked like we might be following up games against Panathinaikos (green), Shamrock Rovers (green), Legia (green) with them (green) and possibly Real Betis (green) in the final.

Claude Goncalves attempted an optimistic lob from maybe forty-five yards but was off target.

Our play was laborious and without pace nor imagination.

It was our version of anti-football.

I commented to Alan that “you wouldn’t cross the road to watch this shite if it wasn’t your team, would you?”

With that – seconds later – a brilliant ball from the otherwise quiet Palmer found Cucurella on the far post, with Nkunku alongside him. Between the two of them, we fashioned a chance that Cucurella tapped home.

Again, no celebration from me.

However, VAR wiped out the goal anyway.

As the first half ended, there were boos.

At the break, I chatted to a few friends and acquaintances.

“So shite.”

“If they were playing in your front garden, you’d close the curtains…”

At the break, Tyrique George replaced Nicolas Jackson who had been quite abysmal. I quite expected to Nkunku to take up a central space, but the substitute played in the middle.

We continued to struggle. I moaned to Alan that “we never play the unexpected pass” to which he replied “apart from to each other” and I laughed, but I knew exactly what he meant.

A white, red and green chequered flag was floated over a section of Legia fans in the far corner.

Down below, a twice-taken corner kick was floated in towards the back stick, where Goncalves was lurking. His shot bounced up off the turf and Steve Kapuadi was able to nod in from very close range with no Chelsea player close.

We were losing again.

Fackinell.

On fifty-seven minutes, a substitution that annoyed virtually ever Chelsea supporter present.

Off came Cucurella, our best player on the night by a country mile.

On came Malo Gusto.

Noni Madueke also replaced the virtually anonymous Palmer.

The home crowd, that had been sitting and standing without much in the way of positive support, was possibly riled by the treatment of Cucurella and decided to wholeheartedly roar the team on with a defiant rendition of the old second-half favourite, “Amazing Grace”.

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA.”

It’s appearance at the game was much needed.

We had our best spell of the match, around the hour mark, and two shots came in quick succession, one from Madueke, one from George.

Then, the away section upped the ante and turned bright red with the appearance of around fifty flares. I, along with others, looked on in awe. In a sobering moment, I realised that the once feared – and fearsome – Chelsea home support had been reduced to watching in silent admiration at the latest in a long line of European opponents that had brought along thousands of loud and energetic supporters. We had seen it before with the likes of Olimpiacos, Napoli, Malmo, Frankfurt and Dortmund among others.

And here we were.

Our mouths were open, metaphorically, as we watched on.

I may not really agree with the ethos behind the Ultra movement but there is no denying that they certainly put on a show.

But I felt uneasy. I felt awkward that we had nothing in reply. It felt like we had been neutered. It felt like we were a passive bunch of voyeurs at some sordid party, onlookers with not a clue how to behave.

Dumbfounded.

Found out.

Was this what it was like to be passengers on a cruise ship full of middle-aged dullards passing by a Croatian nudist beach?

Not sure where to look, nor how to react.

Fackinell.

On seventy-three minutes, a great ball out of defence from James found Madueke who advanced and had two choices; to hit the ball at goal himself or pass square to George. He chose the latter, and the youngster tapped it in. Sadly, an offside flag had been raised, and I felt Tyrique’s pain as he looked to the sky in disgust. Madueke was the guilty party.

On eighty-three minutes, Pedro Neto took over from Sancho.

Just after, a shot on goal at The Shed End from an unknown Legia player was booted so high over the crossbar that I severely wondered if anyone in one-hundred and twenty years had been so far off target in a game at Stamford Bridge.

At the final whistle, there were boos and it surprised nobody.

This was, truly, one of the dullest Chelsea performances that I have ever seen. I have never warmed to Enzo Maresca, and my patience with him is at an all-time low. If I am honest, I am fearing our next match at Fulham on Easter Day, and I honestly do not expect us to win any of our last six league games.

The gate was just 32,549.

In the Conference League, we learned that we will be paired with Djurgarden of Sweden.

See you at Craven Cottage.

Tales From A Weak Bridge

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Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 13 April 2025.

After the uninspiring 0-0 draw at Brentford, Chelsea’s next match was in Poland against Legia Warsaw. With Chelsea yet to play a competitive match in this country, there was a strong chance that I would have been sorely tempted to go. However, quite some time ago I received a letter asking me to attend Jury Service in Bristol during that week. So, no plans were made. Imagine my annoyance when it transpired that I was not needed in court all of that week.

I watched the game in Warsaw on TV. That first-half was so dire, but we managed to scrape three goals from somewhere in the second period to give us a very good platform to advance into the semi-finals.

My football weekend was again double pronged. On the Saturday, I drove into the northern suburbs of Swindon for Frome Town’s away match at the superbly titled Swindon Supermarine, a team that we beat 3-0 just before Christmas, our first home win of the season. This was another “must-win” game of football for the struggling Robins, and I joined around one hundred away fans in a decent gate of 436. It was the home team’s largest attendance of the season. Alas, despite a strong first-half, Frome wilted in the second period and lost the game 1-0 to a goal from Harry Williams five minutes from time.

With just three league games left, the club are now five points from safety. The marked resurgence in our form from December to March has now withered away with five consecutive 1-0 defeats in a row. The need for a 15-20 goal marksman this season was paramount, but with such players so hard to attain, our survival looks impossible.

Sigh.

As Sunday morning arrived, it was up to Chelsea to give me a little football joy on this particular weekend.

Were we up for the task?

I wasn’t sure.

This was a 2pm kick-off, so I wasted no time in the morning. At 7am I picked up PD in Frome. On the way over to collect Parky at 7.30am, our progress was stopped for five minutes when some escaped dairy cows were herded up on the Frome by-pass. Let’s see if I can include this rather odd escapade into the rest of the narrative.

Am I up to the task?

I am not sure.

The pre-match in various parts of Fulham was typical. There was a tasty breakfast on the North End Road at “The Memory Lane Café”.

You know what is coming, right?

10 April 1985 : Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 0.

I was back home in Somerset for Easter when this game was played on a Wednesday evening. I listened along on the radio, and we were 0-0 at half-time. Alas we conceded goals to Johnny Metgod and Garry Birtles in the second period to lose 2-0. The gate was a lowly 14,666.

13 April 1985 : West Ham United 1 Chelsea 1.

I know that my friends Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock went up to London for this game, a much-anticipated return to Upton Park for the first time in over four years. I didn’t go. At this stage of the season, I was planning an Inter-Rail trip around Europe in the summer and so didn’t hit too many away games. There was, if I am honest, the threat of trouble at this game too, and I was probably put off from going for this very reason.

This game kicked-off at 11.30am to try to keep alcohol-induced rowdiness to a minimum. It still shocks me to this day that just 19,003 attended this game. David Speedie put us 1-0 up but Tony Cottee equalised. It ended 1-1.

Unbeknown to anyone at the time, an ITV film crew was at this game and would air some footage from Upton Park, and at Victoria and on the District Line, during an hour-long documentary about hooliganism, and the ICF especially.

Later that night, in a Frome night club I met up with Glenn who went through the day’s events, but the night was spoiled when we both got embroiled in an altercation with someone, team unknown.

Let’s get back to 2025.

I moved on and headed towards the area outside Stamford Bridge. I noted that the old ticket hall at Fulham Broadway Station was undergoing some changes and will be opening in June as a new “Wetherspoon” pub.

There is no punchline.

On the Fulham Road, I spotted a sign that I had not seen before.

“Weak Bridge – 330 Yards Ahead.”

It was referencing the physical bridge – Stamford Bridge – that takes the Fulham Road over the railway line, and before that, the small brook called Counter’s Creek.

Stamford Bridge, the stadium, was named after this very bridge.

I thought this was all too spooky for words. I remember when The Bridge was a strong fortress; now there are bloody road signs saying that the bridge is weak.

I spent a few moments chatting to various friends on the Fulham Road outside the tube station. I then caught a train south from Fulham Broadway. It dawned on me at Parsons Green tube station, as I spotted two young gentlemen wearing pink chinos and pink shorts get off the carriage, that the University Boat Race was taking place in this part of West London on this sunny but occasionally cold day.

I wondered to myself if any of the thousands of attendees would be asked by stewards to show them the contents of their wallets.

I guessed not.

I sat with just Parky and PD in “The Eight Bells” as all the other regulars were absent. I heard that Mike from New York – last seen in Abu Dhabi – was at the game but it looked like our paths would unfortunately not cross.

I was inside the ground with half-an-hour to go.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. The 3,000 away fans – many wearing the pink away shirt – seemed to be a riot of colour.

The team?

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

I spotted that Liam Delap was only a substitute for Ipswich Town.

After “The Liquidator”, we segued into “Blue Is The Colour” and this again set things up nicely with the Stamford Bridge purring along to the famous lyrics.

In the first attack of the game, Cole Palmer received the ball in a good position but took a while to decide what to do. The chance to take aim and strike the ball at goal came and went, and the move ended with an overhit ball to Enzo Fernandez.

I muttered to myself “a move without menace” and wondered if it would set the tone for rest of the game.

Soon after, shambolic distribution from Sanchez had the home crowd howling. As the away fans watched their team in all pink try to get into the game, they sang a song at us.

“Football in a library…”

To be fair, they had a point.

The first quarter of an hour belonged totally to Chelsea. Nicolas Jackson was set up via a good cross from Enzo but his shot was unfortunately smacked against the near post from close range. Then a flurry of chances soon followed. Enzo thumped a shot over the bar, Noni Madueke’s shot was blocked and Trevoh Chalobah’s drive was saved by the Ipswich ‘keeper Alex Palmer.

From a Madueke cross, Levi Colwill forced a fine save from Palmer in The Shed End goal and Marc Cucurella slashed a follow-up effort over the bar.

At this stage, there were little complaints from the home support, although the stadium was hardly making much noise in support of the team.

However.

On twenty-one minutes, the visitors broke and scored with their very first attack. George Hirst did well to escape being hemmed in and broke centrally. I didn’t like the way that Colwill let him run, and when the ball was pushed out to Ben Johnson, Cucurella had to divert his attention from one player to the other, from Hirst to Johnson. He just missed a blocking tackle, and we watched in horror as a cross was nimbly toe-poked into our goal by Julio Enciso.

I said to the boys “watch us go into our shell.”

However, the immediate response from the home fans was good.

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

The Ipswich fans were full of it, of course.

“Can we play you every week?”

There was, sadly, no immediate Chelsea response on the pitch and the mood in the stands deteriorated.

Into our shell we most definitely went.

A “play it out from the back” move much beloved by…er, not many…broke down and Ipswich went close.

The atmosphere blackened.

Ipswich came again just after and I thought that the ball out wide to Enciso looked offside. His cross found the leap and the head of Ben Johnson and we were 2-0 against Ipswich for the second time of the season.

Not even a VAR review could save us.

It was fractured stuff in the closing fifteen minutes of the first period. I loved a fantastic pass from Palmer, reminiscent of similar jewels before Christmas, that set up Cucurella but the move broke down.

Madueke – one of our better, more positive players – drilled a shot over the bar, the reliable Moises Caicedo shot wide, and after a beautiful dink from Enzo, Jackson’s intuitive lob was well over.

The skies were darkening over Stamford Bridge as the first period came to its conclusion.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

During the break, unsurprising moans.

Enzo Maresca made a substitution, though not one that many would have predicted. On came Malo Gusto, off went Tosin.  Chalobah moved alongside Colwill in the centre.

The second half began with my friend Alex appearing next to me and demanding a selfie. I promised her that if we came back to win this one, we’d do “come back selfies” at all other games in which we were losing at half-time.

With that, down on the pitch, Madueke burst forward down the right, made the goal line, passed low, and a lunge at the ball by Cucurella forced Axel Tuanzebe to push the ball into his own net.

I laughed and turned around to see Alex’ reaction.

Smiles all round.

Barely twenty seconds of the second half had elapsed.

The vibe inside the stadium certainly improved and we were attempting to grab, at least, an equaliser.

A Pedro Neto shot was aimed right at the ‘keeper. But then Hirst had two decent chances for Ipswich. He was just wide with a shot, and then from a fantastic cross from their right, his stooping header just went past the post.

It was an open game.

Another Neto shot at the ‘keeper, and then a delicate Neto cross towards the far post that evaded everyone.

A change on sixty-seven minutes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Neto was moved over to the right and Sancho appeared down below us on the left.

The Chelsea chances continued to pile up; a Palmer effort was deflected wide, a Neto volley just over. Sancho sent in a low cross and it was touched towards goal by Enzo, but Conor Townsend managed to hoof the ball out and away from goal. Then another shot from Enzo, but another save from Palmer.

Fackinell.

On seventy-nine minutes, Palmer played a short corner to Sancho. He sized things up, and shot, and I shot too. The ball flew fast and seemed to dip before it nestled inside the far post.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Phew.

I looked around and caught Alex’ eye again.

I have stopped worrying about us obtaining a Champions League place this season. It won’t happen. I am not sure how far up – or down – the league table we will finish this year, but while there are points to be won, Chelsea have my attention.

Could we grab a winner against lowly Ipswich? This was now my focus, and it did make me squirm to realise that this would be a pretty decent achievement in the circumstances.

On eighty-five minutes, Chalobah came close with a high leap at the far post that I managed to capture on film but the ‘keeper somehow managed to block.

Somehow.

A shot from Palmer was flashed over.

With four minutes to go, the much-maligned Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

There were six minutes of time added on at the ninety-minute mark.

We kept going.

A low curler from Palmer was pushed around the post by his namesake.

The last chance of the game came from Enzo, who smashed a ball at goal but the bastard Ipswich ‘keeper again made another phenomenal stop.

It ended 2-2.

As we made our way out, the away fans were singing “We Support Our Local Team” and their players stood in front of the packed away end, as one.

I thought to myself : “fair play to them.”

Walking up towards “The Wolfpack” with my head down and pacing forlornly, I suddenly looked to my right and spotted Mike from New York. It was lovely to see him once again, an unexpected pleasure at the end of a rather disappointing and disjointed performance from the team.

This is becoming another tough season.

Despite the frustrations of the domestic campaign, there is our increasingly advanced participation in the UEFA Conference League.

However, as I drove home from London, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to attend the game against Legia Warsaw on Thursday.

And I still don’t know who won the boat race.

Tales From The Sun And The Shadows

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Brentford vs. Chelsea : 6 April 2025.

During this footballing weekend, I would be seeing my fortieth Frome Town game and also my fortieth Chelsea game of this 2024/25 season.

On the Saturday, Frome Town – the Dodge, the Scarlet Runners – were up first. There was a home game at Badgers Hill against Chertsey Town, who were just above the relegation drop zone, while Frome were struggling to get out of it. There have been a whole host of “must-win games” for my hometown team of late, but this really was it; an absolute “must-win game”. We were staring into the abyss, this was the point of no return, and a whole many more drastic cliches.

I met up with a few Frome Town regulars – Sumo, Asa, Trotsky, Francis – at the nearby Frome Cricket Club, and my presence there was intended to facilitate a little good fortune. The last time I visited the Cricket Club was before the successful Play-Off Final win last season. I hoped for a similar outcome.

Trotsky is a Brentford fan and so would be at both of my games over the weekend. We had heard that Chertsey would be bringing two coaches of supporters down to Somerset and so I was hoping that we would see a similar gate to the 659 against Hungerford Town a week earlier. Once inside it was soon apparent that the gate would be considerably less. The sunny and warm weather – usually a boon – had probably enticed potential spectators elsewhere.

We began the game well, full of attacking intent, and managed to get the ball into the goal on two occasions, only for both to be called back for offside.  Unfortunately, a defensive slip allowed the visitors to go 1-0 up, and Frome found it difficult to get back into the game. At half-time, I changed ends and watched the second half in front of the clubhouse. Alas, only a small smattering of half-chances were forthcoming and as the atmosphere grew quieter and quieter, the grim realisation of yet another 0-1 loss (our fourth in a row) grew nearer. The elusive goal didn’t materialise. The gate was announced as 490, a mite disappointing if I am honest.

At the final whistle, my little group of friends stood motionless, unable to move.

This one hurt.

Frome Town have four games left: two at home against Dorchester and Totton, two aways at Swindon and Plymouth. Realistically we need to win two of these four to give ourselves even the slightest hope of survival.

We live in hope.

Saturday became Sunday and it was now Chelsea’s turn.

Our game at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was our middle match in a stretch of nine consecutive league games in London. However, our run to the end of the season clearly isn’t easy. In fact, before the game with Tottenham I mentioned to a few mates that – “without being too dramatic, nor negative” – I couldn’t see where we were going to get a win in the remaining games.

And then along came Tottenham, and Tottenham were Tottenham, and it was ever thus.

The kick-off in West London was at 2pm, and I had purchased a “JustPark” space on Oliver Close (the same close as last season if not the same house) from 11am and we envisaged a little pub crawl next to the Thames once again.

There was a lie-in of sorts – I was still up for 7am – and PD was collected at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am.

On a sunny morning, we enjoyed the regular route up to London; a McBreakfast at Melksham, up onto the M4, thankfully now free of speeding restrictions east of Reading, and the familiar sights such as Windsor Castle, the planes at Heathrow, the elevated section of the M4, the Wembley Arch to the north.

Everything was going to plan until I drove close to the Brentford stadium on Lionel Road, then took a road parallel to the Thames at Kew, only to find that the only access road to Oliver Close was shut due to road enhancements on Thames Road. My two passengers exited the car and walked on to the nearest pub, “The Bull’s Head”, a few hundred yards to the east. Try as I might to access Oliver Close via another nearby road, I was defeated. Instead, I had to backtrack west, head over Kew Bridge, not once but twice, and then head back the way I had come and up onto the M4 as it became the A4. From here, I drove eastwards for a mile or so and then veered off at the next exit. From here, a mile and half west to my parking spot on Oliver Close. This detour took me around twenty-five minutes, and all because of a closure of no more than twenty-five yards on Thames Road.

I wondered if such a painfully slow approach to my final destination would be mirrored by Chelsea’s attempts to penetrate the Brentford penalty box later.

I reached “The Bull’s Head” at 11.30am. Inside, at the same window seat overlooking the river as last season, my two travel companions were sharing laughs and matchday pints with Salisbury Steve and Southgate Jimmy. I slotted in alongside them and we reminisced on the Tottenham match, while trying to muster up a little enthusiasm for the afternoon’s attraction.

We spent a good hour or so there, then dropped into our main haunt at Brentford, “The Bell & Crown”, which we were visiting for probably the fourth or fifth time. There was a relaxed mix of home and away fans at this pub, but there were no Chelsea colours on show, as is our style. The sun was out, it was getting warmer and warmer.

Bliss.

We chatted to a few mates – Rob, Cal, Cliff, Chidge, Tim – and the general vibe was undoubtedly this :

“Do we have to go to the bloody football? Can’t we just stay here?”

Time was moving on, so we made our way up to the away turnstiles which are hidden away between cramped and towering flats, giving the stadium a claustrophobic and cramped-in feel, and down a few steps. You enter the stadia way below street level.

Again, I decided against a potential row with an over-zealous steward by leaving my SLR at home, instead smuggling in my Sony pub camera inside the stadium by hiding it in the palm of my hand.

Amidst the security checks, I heard this.

“Can I see inside your wallet?”

I was taken aback.

What? What was I hearing? My wallet?

I mouthed “sure” but I was fuming. Where else in the UK would somebody be asked to show the contents of their wallet? While attending a theatre? A cinema? An agricultural show? An art gallery? A shopping mall? A library?

Fackinell.

I joked with a mate “I wish I had a nude photo of his mother inside my wallet…”

I was soon inside the packed concourse. And then something lovely happened. At Stamford Bridge on Thursday, amidst all the photos of the celebrations after the Enzo match winner, there was one fan who dominated the photos of the scene down below me in the first few rows of the MHL. A lad in a yellow Chelsea shirt – the crisp one from 2021/22 – was right next to Enzo, his face a picture of absolute ecstasy.

A friend suggested that I needed to use social media to find him.

Well, within a few seconds of entering the away concourse at Brentford, I found him. I took his email address and promised to send him a selection of images.

Fantastic.

It’s all a bit weird at Brentford. From the concourse, you must ascend a flight of stairs, even to access the lower section of the away corner. I soon found my place alongside John and Gary. We were only a few rows from the corner flag.

Oh God, the sun was bearing down on us in that lower section. Despite wearing some “Ray Bans”, I soon realised that my vantage point for this game was pretty crap, especially considering the shadows underneath the main stand on the far side of the pitch and the dazzling sun elsewhere. We were so low too. I soon decided that I wasn’t going to enjoy the view at this game.

Our team?

It was hardly our first team. It shocked me.

Gusto at right back but James at left back. No Palmer. No Jackson. It took me ages to realise that our shape had been tweaked to allow three in midfield.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – James

Fernandez – Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Nkunku – Sancho

There was a shared “Hey Jude” and the match began, with – for once – Chelsea attacking us in the first half.

Before we knew it, a chance for Christopher Nkunku from a James free kick on the right, but he arrived late at the far post and his header flew off and towards Oliver Close. It would be our only effort on goal for a while. At the other end, Brentford themselves enjoyed a couple of half-chances. Their front two of Bryan Mbeumo and Yoane Wissa were already up to no good; they needed to be watched those two.

On seven minutes, the away section boomed with a loud “One Man Went To Mow” but the play on the pitch took a while to get going.

Jadon Sancho, down below us, was urged to “skin” his marker but Gary quipped “he couldn’t skin a banana.”

What is it with wingers that won’t outpace their markers these days, one of the greatest sights in football over the years?

Oh yes, of course, stats say that balls crossed from the by-line are less likely to result in goal-scoring chances than balls slowly moved around the periphery of the penalty box ad nauseum until a half yard of space is created. I remembered my journey through Chiswick a few hours earlier as balls were passed to wide men to central defenders, to midfielders, to false nines, to inverted wingers, to hell and back.

Fucksake.

I wasn’t enjoying this at all.

The pitch was a hideous mix of bright sunshine and dark shadows, I was starting to get baked, my proper camera was at home, and Chelsea were boring me fucking rigid.

A few songs that heralded past players were sung.

“It’s Salomon!”

The home team conjured up a few half-chances as Chelsea toiled. A Sanchez error – quelle surprise – but then a great recovery as he spread himself to save from Mikkel Damsgaard. Brentford suddenly looked the livelier. Mbeumo cut inside from the right and should have done better with a shot that he screwed wide. The mood in our section deteriorated.

At one point in the first half, I could hardly believe my eyes as a Chelsea defender in the left back position – was it you Reece? – crossed a ball right across the Chelsea box, a mere five yards from the goal-line, right over the heads of attacking players to a defender on the other side of the box, himself no further than five yards from the goal-line.

Oh my God.

This was terrible to watch.

Two nearby Chelsea supporters, caught up in a prolonged and heated discussion, almost came to blows.

“Will you stop swearing?”

Really? At football? Fackinell.

We bellowed in desperation.

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

Just after, on thirty-four minutes, Noni Madueke took our advice and did so.

The Chelsea choir responded, and it was truly cringeworthy.

“We’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot – we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot.”

Just after, Madueke was clean through – one on one – but was cleanly tackled.

Brentford, from a corner, had a header cleared and it looked like we were hanging on.  The frustration on the terraces grew. Many players were picked out for comment, with Nkunku and Sancho the most likely to be chastened. In the middle, by comparison, Moises Caicedo shone like a beacon.

Late on, a James free kick, but a Tosin header was glanced wide with the entire goal at his mercy.

That Madueke effort, I think, was indeed our only shot on target.

Meanwhile, also in West London, Fulham were surprisingly gubbing Liverpool 3-1 at half-time.

Way back in 1985, West London was my focus again.

Exactly forty years ago, on Saturday 6 April 1985, Chelsea played West London neighbours – and Hammersmith & Fulham neighbours – Queens Park Rangers in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I remember this day well. I met up with Glenn in Frome and we got a lift with two lads from Radstock – Terry and Swan – who then drove us to a spot on the A303 where Terry parked his car in a lay-by. We then caught the Yeovil Supporters Coach up to London from there. I visited the now long-gone “The George” pub at the corner of Fulham Road and the North End Road for the very first time. For a few short years – until 1988 – it would become my first Chelsea “local”.

After the hooliganism at the Sunderland game, the West Stand Benches were closed for a few weeks (and the famous concrete slabs were installed) and so we watched in The Shed. Pre-match, I chatted to Alan and Paul, we saw Leggo and Mark, and Dave came down to chat to us too.

All of these lads still go to Chelsea to this day.

I love that.

This was a poor game, and an especially poor first-half. The QPR team, playing in those Dennis the Menace red and black hooped shirts, included three former Chelsea players; Gary Chivers, Steve Wicks and Mike Fillery. Thankfully Kerry Dixon broke down the right at the Shed End in the seventieth minute and cooly finished to give us a slender 1-0 lead. We had to rely on a splendid Eddie Niedzwiecki save, late-on, to secure the three points. The gate was 20,340 but I expected less. As can be seen in the photos, QPR only partially filled two of the four pens in the away end. Their following was no more than 2,000.

By contrast, our away numbers at Loftus Road were embarrassingly more, year after year.

Back to 2025, and changes at the start of the second period.

Enzo Maresca’s odd choice of resting Nicolas Jackson for Thursday’s game in Poland – presumably – lasted just forty-five minutes. He replaced the dismal Nkunku.

Soon into the second period, the move of the match. I loved the way that a runner – Sancho I think – raced outside and took his man out of the picture, allowing Gusto to push on inside. A neat pass, then, to Dewsbury-Hall who found Jackson with a perfect long ball. However, Nico shot just wide.

A corner and a headed chance for Trevoh Chalobah went wide.

It was so difficult to see what on Earth was happening in the dark shadows at the other end. The sun was still beating down. I felt my skin buzzing. This was an uncomfortable watch.

You will note that there are no photographs featured from the second half of this game. In fact, I took very few of the whole match. Maybe the Frome ones compensate a little.

I approved of the Kante song being adapted for Caicedo.

“Moises will win you the ball…”

On the hour, two more widely applauded substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Dewsbury-Hall.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

So much for resting them for Thursday.

These two additions soon combined; Palmer to Neto, a curler palmed away by Mark Flekken in the Bees’ goal. Then, a minute later, another Neto shot at Flekken. James headed at the Brentford ‘keeper from a Neto corner, the ball at a comfortable height for a reflex save. Palmer curled an effort just wide of the post.

After a dire first-half, we were at least creating a few chances.

More Chelsea half-chances, and then a Brentford break. A decent save from Sanchez but offside anyway.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella for James.

Who would be playing on Thursday? It was far from clear.

Just after, from a Chelsea corner, another rapid Brentford break, right through the middle of our defence. Mbeumo lead the charge and passed outside to Wissa. I think we all feared the worst here. Thankfully, the much-maligned Sanchez stuck out a strong arm to parry. It was a fantastic save.

Brentford then enjoyed two clear goalscoring chances.

Keane Lewis-Potter, who sounds like he should be more suited to rain-affected cricket matches, set up Sepp Van Den Berg who attacked the ball inside the six-yard box, but his header miraculously bounced down and over the bar.

Then another near-miss as Wissa headed over.

The game was coming to life in its final minutes.

In the dying moments, up the other end, two late Chelsea chances. Enzo created space but thumped his shot wide. In the last move of the game, and indeed the last kick of the game, Palmer twisted and turned, took aim, but his curling effort floated just over the bar.

From my position, it appeared to be going in.

I was getting ready to jump for joy.

It didn’t. I didn’t.

It ended 0-0.

Miraculously, we ended the day in fourth place, and I can’t explain it.

Can anyone?

40 : FTFC

40 : CFC

40 : 1985

Tales From The Famous Chelsea

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 April 2025.

I am always the same. While sitting at my desk at work from 6am to 2pm, I was occasionally worried about the evening’s key Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur match. No other fixture gets to me in quite the same fashion. No other game makes me as agitated.

I guess that it is all because of “The Run”; the run of fixtures at Stamford Bridge since late 1990 that has seen Chelsea only lose once against “that lot” from N17 in thirty-four home league games. Throw in an unbeaten five cup games at home and it comes to one defeat in thirty-nine matches.

It’s an unbelievable show of dominance of one topflight team over another. I have stated before that this must be the most one-sided record between two teams in any main league’s topflight over a thirty-five-year period.

Long may it continue, eh?

It had been eighteen ridiculously long days since our last game, a scratchy 1-0 win at home to Leicester City, and it felt great to be heading back along the M4 once again. It felt especially nice to have PD back alongside me after missing the last two games.

In that gap of eighteen games, my football obsession was satiated by attending five Frome Town matches.

Paulton Rovers vs. Frome Town : 18 March.

First up was a Somerset Premier Cup semi-final at nearby Paulton Rovers. This was a relatively easy 3-1 win in a fast and physical game against a team now two divisions below us after playing at the same level last season.

Basingstoke Town vs. Frome Town : 22 March.

I went with my mate Glenn to the league game at Basingstoke and met up with my Chelsea pal Leigh, from Basingstoke, in a local pub beforehand. On nearing Basingstoke, I admitted to Glenn that “I am glad I am seeing Frome play today and not Chelsea” and it felt like a seminal moment. It wasn’t a great game, but a James Ollis goal gave us a vital three points in our bid for survival.

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town : 25 March.

Next up, was a run of three home league games. Unfortunately, the first of these was a very poor match in which last season’s bitter rivals Wimborne Town beat us 1-0. The, however, gate was a creditable 531.

Frome Town vs. Hungerford Town : 29 March.

A very decent crowd of 659 saw us lose 1-0 again, against Hungerford Town, in a game that was of slightly better quality than against Wimborne but our lack of firepower in front of the goal was again very telling. We were still mired in a relegation place.

Frome Town vs. Weston-super-Mare : 2 April.

Some respite came in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, against National League South outfit Weston-super-Mare. Our opponents played a young team, but despite several chances to score, we succumbed to yet another 1-0 loss. Our lack of goals has plagued us all season.

Talking of other games, we return to 1984/85, and the briefest of mentions of the next match in my forty-year retrospective. On Saturday 30 March 1985, Chelsea travelled to Roker Park for a league game against Sunderland. I didn’t travel to this, and I don’t think many Chelsea did. The gate was a miserly 13,489. This came not long after them defeating us in the Milk Cup semi-finals and I don’t think it exactly captured the imagination of the Chelsea support. It also came six days after Sunderland lost 1-0 to Norwich City in the final so I don’t think it captured the imagination of the home support either. However, we came away from the game with a nice 2-0 win with goals from Kerry Dixon and a Micky Thomas penalty.

After grabbing a tasty bite to eat at a café – “222” – on the North End Road, I flew down to “The Eight Bells” where I chatted with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Ian inside the pub and my fellow Sleepy Hollow companion Clive – a first visit for him to our local – and his mate John on the tables outside.

During the day I had found out that the Fulham team changed in this pub when the team used to play at a local patch of land now occupied by Raneleigh Gardens. This would have been between 1886 and 1888. There’s football history everywhere in SW6 if you know where to look.

From this particular part of Fulham, we caught a tube up to the Broadway, and I was inside the stadium at 7.30pm.

The team?

We were so glad that both Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson had returned.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I chuckled as the “Dug Out Club Wankers” were drenched by the pitch sprinklers as they made their ceremonial walk across the centre of the pitch before the game.

It was if George Anstiss was having one last laugh from above.

“Get orf my bleedin’ pitch.”

Nearing kick-off, we were treated to a bizarre song to warm us all up and get us in the mood for football.

“You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC.

Answers on a fucking postcard.

That ain’t Chelsea, it ain’t even football.

Thankfully, we were soon back to the much more suitable “London Calling” by The Clash.

Then the dimming of the lights, but thankfully no flames in front of the East Stand. As the teams appeared, The Shed was a riot of colour. In the top tier, many flags were waved, while a large banner was draped from the balcony.

THE FAMOUS CHELSEA

Back in the ‘eighties, The Shed used to bellow “we are the famous, the famous Chelsea” but that seems to have died a death since then. The Geordies, however, still chant something similar to this day.

My mate Rob had appeared next to me just as the huge banner was beginning to be displayed and had sagely commented :

“You watch it unravel.”

I wondered if this might prove to be a worrying metaphor for, perhaps, the game ahead.

Meanwhile, down in the Matthew Harding Lower a huge – new – crowd surfer flag depicted The Rising Sun and Gus Mears.

This was a nice homage at both ends of the stadium for “CFC 120” as the club has termed it.

There was a change from the usual “Liquidator” by the Harry J All Stars with a perfectly timed incision of “Blue Is The Colour” into the pre-match routine leading right up to kick-off. I loved it that the crowd continued singing once the song had been forced into early retirement by the start of the match.

“So cheer us on through the sun and the rain ‘cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

And what a start.

From the whistle, the noise was deafening, the best of the season by far, and the returning striker Jackson almost caused immediate joy. Put through by Trevoh Chalobah, he raced on and found himself one-on-one with Guglielmo Vicario. There was a prod at goal, saved, but a crazy passage of play saw Micky Van de Ven attempt to clear, but the ball was hacked against Jackson’s shin. Our pulses were racing here, but sadly we saw the ball ricochet back off the right-hand post. There would be no celebrations in front of Parkyville just yet.

On six minutes, Marc Cucurella to Malo Gusto but just wide. That shot is featured here.

In the first quarter of an hour, I was very happy to see a far greater level of intensity and a much better desire to release the ball early, especially compared to the bore-fest at Arsenal.

Simply put, the threat of a pacey Jackson made all the difference since we now had a focus of our attack. On the right, Pedro Neto was also able to concentrate on his wing duties rather than ponce around in the middle and lose his way.

On eighteen minutes, a nice move twixt Jadon Sancho and Palmer on the left and there was a mad scramble in the Tottenham six-yard box, but Vicario was able to block virtually on the line.

There was a delightful turn / shimmy / dragback from Sancho that set up Palmer but the ball went out for a corner.

Dogged play from Jackson on twenty-eight minutes, hounding his defender, but a shot was blazed over.

By the half-hour mark, we were well on top, with Tottenham only threatening sporadically, mainly through Son Heing-min and Lucas Bergvall. Sancho showed lots of skill in tight areas but there was an infuriating reluctance to shoot. On the visitors’ rare breaks inside our final third, I loved the way that our players flung themselves at the ball to block. This showed spirit and character, and long may it thrive.

A lovely move on forty-four minutes resulted in a deep Neto cross from the right which was nicely met by Sancho. His wicked shot was on target but was incredibly well tipped over by Vicario.

At the other end, Robert Sanchez had been so quiet.

As the first half ended, we were happy, and there was a lovely sound of applause from the home areas.

In the concourse at the break, I spotted a chap with a River Plate shirt and I tapped him on the shoulder and could not resist the word “Boca” and a smile, but I wish, now, that I had stopped and asked if he was an Enzo fan.

Because everything was about to change.

After an early shot on goal from Palmer that tested Vicario again, the ball found its way to the feet of our talisman from Mancunia. I snapped as he eyed up the opportunity to cross.

His ball into the danger area was absolute perfection.

This felt right.

With my camera still poised, I snapped as Enzo – ex-River Plate – rose and planted the ball home.

MY ENZO.

GET IN.

The stadium exploded.

I was boiling over but shot a load of photos as the Argentinian raced towards us.

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

Enzo was hidden, submerged, for a few seconds, and I love the ecstasy on the face of players and supporters alike.

There had been a worry in the pub beforehand that without many local lads in our squad, the importance of this game against this opponent would be lost.

We need not have worried.

I looked at Alan.

We both smiled.

Paul Hogan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Barry Humphries : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Just after, Enzo attempted a very ambitious bicycle kick just past the penalty spot.

“Easy tiger.”

Two minutes after, the ball came out to the excellent Moises Caicedo from an Enzo free-kick, and he lashed it home.

The place erupted again, and I found it difficult to focus my camera on the melee in the far corner as the North Stand was moving so much.

Alas, VAR.

Alas, no goal.

Alas, a hairline offside from Levi Colwill.

Alas, the game we love is being strangled.

On sixty-three minutes, a massively wide effort from Neto, the ball curling out around ten yards from the corner flag in front of the West Stand.

Fackinell.

Tottenham went close on sixty-five minutes.

A substitution : Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Then, on sixty-nine minutes, Pape Matar Sarr broke and smashed a low drive from around thirty-five yards along the ground and seemingly at Sanchez. Our ‘keeper, maybe thinking about his post-match meal, his summer holiday, a long-lost unrequited love from his early years, or how the Matthew Harding roof stays up, wasn’t with it and his despairing dive only resulted in the ball deflecting high and into the roof of the net.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, a foul on Caicedo was spotted.

VAR.

A ridiculously long wait.

And I hate it how players from both teams were allowed to stand so close to referee Craig Pawson as he studied the pitch-side TV screen.

In such circumstances, the players should be corralled within the centre-circle.

Right?

Anyway, no goal.

Alan and I remained still and silent.

I don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour.

Fuck VAR.

However, the noise levels increased.

“This is more like it.”

I loved how Enzo twisted and turned down below me in the box, despite running out of space. His was a really fine performance on this night.

Vicario then saved from that man Enzo.

Another substitution : Reece James for Jackson.

Over on the far touchline, manager Maresca seemed to be getting the crowd in the East Lower pumped up. I noted that he was wearing a tangerine sweatshirt under his jacket, and it immediately brought memories of those orange sweatshirts that the players used to wear during their “kicking in” before games in the ‘seventies.

Twelve minutes of injury time.

Gulp.

Two more substitutions : Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo, Tosin Adarabioyo for Palmer.

I whispered to Alan : “anything could happen here, mate.”

The clock ticked…

I loved it when Dewsbury-Hall made two crunching tackles and after both his teammates raced over to “high-five” him.

Great team spirit.

The noise boomed.

To “Amazing Grace” :

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

In the very last minute, however, our nerves were sorely tested as Tottenham broke rapidly. Dominic Solanke – who? – played the ball to Brennan Johnson who crossed low towards Son at the far post. He slid and poked it goalwards, but Sanchez – I take it all back – made a remarkable recovery to move to his right and block the goal-bound effort.

Phew.

It was an absolutely magnificent save.

Soon after, the final whistle blew.

Thankfully, the famous Chelsea Football Club didn’t unravel.

Not this time.

Tales From A Non-Game

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 16 March 2025.

From Arnos Grove To Arsenal :

My last of four trips to London within an eight-day period was for the derby in North London against Arsenal.

Virtually every Chelsea fan that I spoke with was not looking forward to this one. The memories of our heavy 0-5 defeat last season were still fresh in our collective minds and, no doubt, most would say that the current team under Enzo Maresca was in a worse state of health than under Mauricio Pochettino in the final two months of last season.

We would descend on the Emirates Stadium out of duty, and we carried little hope for much success.

Alas PD was again unable to make this trip. I collected Parky at 7am and we kept ourselves occupied with some typical chit-chat on the quick flit to London. There was a brief mention of Frome Town’s home game against a famous non-league team, Havant & Waterlooville, the previous day. Frome began brightly and scored after eight minutes with a goal from Albie Hopkins, but the visitors began to play some impressive football and equalised on the half-hour. At that stage, there looked like only one winner. Thankfully, Frome responded well and provided a dogged performance in the second period to grab a deserved 1-1 draw. My Chelsea mate Glenn attended, and liked it, and spoke of plans to see an upcoming away game in Basingstoke. The gate was a creditable 512.

Before we knew it, I was in Hammersmith, and we sloped into “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 9.30am for – quite probably – the highlight of the day.

While Parky dined on bubble-and-squeak and a few other choices, I went for a full English.

Toast

Sausages – Bacon – Hash-Browns – Beans

Fried Eggs – Mushrooms

Black Pudding – Brown Sauce

Tea

A fine line-up, I am sure most would agree.

I then drove to Barons Court, and we caught a non-stop Piccadilly Line train straight through the metropolis and alighted at Arnos Grove, in Deep Norf, just before 11am. Here, we had plans to meet Jimmy The Greek and a selection of his mates. Arnos Grove station is an art deco classic. It’s circular booking hall reminded me so much of my first-ever Chelsea tube station – Park Royal in West London, where I caught my first-ever tube to Stamford Bridge fifty-one years ago to the exact day, Saturday 16 March 1974 – but the pub next door, The Arnos Arms, was an Arts and Crafts gem in its own way.

It was 11am and Jimmy was waiting for the landlady to open the front doors. We virtually had the vast pub all to ourselves. The others – Nick, Bobby – joined us and we sank a few drinks of various strengths in sullen contemplation of the day ahead.

We caught the train south and alighted at Arsenal tube just before 1pm. As always, memories of “The Greatest Away Game Ever” – Saturday 25 August 1984 – jumped into my head.

Ah, that season again.

I was in North London exactly forty years ago on Saturday 16 March 1985 but a few miles north visiting a school friend, Richard, who was studying at Middlesex Polytechnic in Tottenham. On that Saturday, Chelsea played at Watford, but I thought it would be rather mean to come down to visit him and yet disappear off for most of the day to see Chelsea play. Instead, we spent some time together by visiting Craven Cottage, a first visit for me, for a Second Division game between Fulham and Charlton Athletic. I can remember exiting at Putney Bridge, no doubt walking very close to The Eight Bells, as it was snowing, and then watching a very dour 0-0 from the home Hammersmith End. The gate was a shockingly low 6,918.

Up in Watford, Chelsea nabbed a fine 3-1 away win with goals from Kerry Dixon, David Speedie and a John McLelland own-goal. Richard is a lifetime Portsmouth supporter – for the past two season he has contributed a page in the club’s home programme as one of their in-house poets – and on that day his team won 3-2 at Grimsby Town.

I always remember that we reconvened after the game in his student flat and we heard that his mate Serge, another North London Greek, had been to watch his team, Arsenal, who had won 2-0 against Leicester City at Highbury. And I always remember immediately contrasting his life as a local Arsenal fan being able to watch his team with relative ease, whereas my expeditions to see Chelsea, from either Somerset or Staffordshire, were a little more difficult.

And I wondered if Serge took all of that for granted. I really should have asked him.

I last saw him at Richard’s wedding in 1994, and I sometimes wonder if I might bump into him at Arsenal on any of my various visits.

I didn’t fancy risking my SLR again, so I just took my smaller “Sony” pub camera inside the stadium. We had a very similar spot to last season’s shellacking, close to the exit by the corner flag.

There wasn’t long to wait for this game to start. Alas, Alan couldn’t make this one either. I was stood next to John and Gary, and my good friend Andy from Nuneaton was right behind me.

I had a look around the stadium. It’s a large structure but is not as visually strong as it could be. There are much steeper stands, now, at Tottenham’s new pad and there will be even steeper stands at Everton’s new place. Although the upper tier, by nature, has a steep rake, the lower tier has a very shallow incline. Watching the game from this lower tier is not fantastic. The tiers seemed slightly lop-sided, disjointed even. There is almost some sort of optical illusion happening here. It seemed to me that the heavy upper tier had somehow squashed the lower tier and forced it to crumple and compress.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Worryingly, no Cole Palmer.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Sancho – Enzo – Nkunku

Neto

Another dose of round pegs and square holes, alas.

At 1.30pm, the game began and for the first time that I can remember, Chelsea attacked us in the Clock End in the first half.

Early on, Leandro Trossard was presented with a chance inside our box but shot wide of the target. On eight minutes, yet another “Sanchez In Poor Distribution Shocker” but he was able to recover admirably to save from Gabriel Martinelli.

On twelve minutes, Marc Cucurella lost possession and ought to have cleared, and it seemed that they had multiple chances to push the ball home but eventually shot over via Declan Rice.

“They’re getting past us too easily.”

Shots from Rice, again, and Trossard, again.

On twenty minutes, a corner down on the Arsenal right by Martin Odegaard was met with an unhindered leap by Mikel Merino at the near post, and we watched in horror as the ball dropped in at the far post.

Bloody hell. Arsenal scoring from a corner. Shocker.

There was immediate noise from the home areas, but this soon dissipated.

On twenty-four minutes, a shock to the system. Enzo raced forward and smacked a rogue shot that bounced wide.

This was soporific stuff.

On thirty-six minutes, the Chelsea contingent did their best to inspire the team who were struggling with virtually all aspects of the game.

ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!

Just after, Cucurella went just wide with a volley that squirmed just past the post.

The game dwindled on, only punctuated occasionally by an outburst from the watching thousands.

Then, a little spell of Chelsea pressure in the final moments of the first half.

However, this wasn’t much of a game at all. If Arsenal had punished us with some of those first-half chances, we would have been well out of it at half-time.

I turned around to Andy.

“Think of some of the great derbies around the World. Rio, Buenos Aires, Rome, Milan, great rivalries in those cities, great clubs. Then you see this, and it’s so quiet.”

It indeed was a tepid atmosphere.

At the break, no changes.

Well, the second half was worse than the first half. It turned into a “non-match”, so lacking in spirit and fight that it made me wonder why on Earth I had bothered.

The body language was just disgraceful. It pained me to watch it. No urgency, no talking, no “gee-ing up” of teammates. For some reason, a vision of Frank Lampard came into my head. An image of him, when things weren’t going our way, leaning forward, pointing, talking, encouraging, on edge, urging his fellow players to give extra.

This current team has none of this passion.

And this half of football had so few memories.

On sixty minutes, a brilliant save from Sanchez from Merino.

Just after, Arsenal manufactured some noise albeit by using the borrowed Liverpool chant.

“Allez Allez.”

Chelsea countered.

“Fuck all again, ole ole.”

Maresca made some – very late – changes and you had to wonder why.

Tyrique George for Sancho, his first mention.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku, his first mention.

Romeo Lavia for James, his first mention.

Tosin for Badiashile, his first mention.

With ten minutes ago, with the game on the line still, Chelsea did not change it up at all, instead relying on the sleepwalking of the previous eighty minutes.

Pass, pass, pass.

It was fucking disgraceful.

Out of the blue, George looped a high ball towards the back stick but Cucurella, as good as any, could not quite reach the ball.

The game fizzled out and no more goals ensuded.

Unbelievably, we were still fourth.

Good God.

We made it back to Barons Court at 4.45pm. On the drive home we were diverted off the M4, while we were listening to the League Cup Final from Wembley. While slowly navigating the narrow streets around Eton College, via intermittent and patchy Radio Five Live coverage, we heard of Dan Burn scoring for Newcastle United against Liverpool. As we eventually headed off the M4 towards Hungerford, half-an-hour later, we were quite happy that the Geordies had won their first silverware of any nature since 1969 and their first domestic trophy since 1955.

In season 1992/93, I attended three Newcastle United away games with my good mate Pete – Brentford, Bristol City, Swindon Town – and I was so pleased for him, and a few other good friends who follow the team. I have a small soft spot for them.

Pete watched the match in a Weston-Super-Mare care home with is father Bill, who was just eighteen when the Geordies won the 1955 FA Cup Final.

Well done them.

I reached home at 8.15pm.

I could not help but note how many fellow Chelsea supporters were using the adjective “tepid” to describe the game at Arsenal. It is a term I have used, and on many occasions of late.

We can’t all be wrong.

Next, a very long break for Chelsea Football Club.

We have no game for eighteen long days.

Perhaps it is for the best.

ARNOS GROVE

ARSENAL

Tales From The Cheap Seats

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Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 13 March 2025.

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

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

I am still unaware who nominated me.

If it is you…THANK YOU SO MUCH.

It was a great evening.

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

Ninety minutes, how fitting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s correct.

It’s not a miss-print.

£12,995.

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

But I have fostered a different opinion of late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

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

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

Jorgensen

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

Caicedo – Fernandez

George – Dewsbury-Hall – Sancho

Neto

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

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

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

Chelsea : blue / blue / white.

Copenhagen : white / white / blue.

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

Bloody hell Chelsea.

No shirt sponsor.

A whole tier empty.

Sort it out.

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

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

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

This was dire.

Football is meant to entertain us.

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

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

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

From the away fans, shades of 2011.

“Is this a library?”

“You’re shit and you know you are.”

There was no witty riposte this time.

We were funnier fourteen years ago.

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

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

Enzo Maresca made two substitutions at the break.

Marc Cucurella for Acheampong, slightly harsh I felt.

Cole Palmer for Enzo, deserved.

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

Bloody hell.

“Smelling salts please nurse.”

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

Ugh.

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

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

Time to relax?

I think so.

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

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

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

On sixty-five minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Sancho.

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

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

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

A very late sub, and a debut.

Genesis Antwi for Neto.

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

It finished 1-0 to Chelsea.

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

A Celebration Of 120 Years

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen

Tales From The History Book

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Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

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

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

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

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

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

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

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

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

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

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

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

What a buzz.

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

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

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

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

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

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

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

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

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a sunny day in SW6.

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

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

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

Lovely applause for them all.

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

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

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

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

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

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

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

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

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

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

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

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

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

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

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

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

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

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

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

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

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

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

I spoke about Vardy.

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

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

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

Pah.

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

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

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

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

I joined in.

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

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

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

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

“Get in Cucurella.”

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

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

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

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

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

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

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

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

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

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

It ended 1-0.

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

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

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

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

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From An Easy One

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Chelsea vs. Southampton : 25 February 2025.

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

Aston Villa Saturday evening, Southampton Tuesday evening.

No time to breath.

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

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

“It’s what I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pete smiled.

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

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

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

West Ham Away – 1986.

Watford Home – 1986.

Southampton Home – 1995.

Aston Villa Home – 1998.

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

Back to 2025.

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

Us?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

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

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

Good effort.

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

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

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

An old school battle.

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

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

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

“Good defensive clearance that, Onuacho.”

“Bless you!”

“Thank you.”

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

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

There was a VAR wait, but the goal stood.

We were one-up.

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

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

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

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

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

A very fine goal.

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

Click.

Goal.

A run to the corner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Palmer, an easy out : oh for five.”

Neto, through on goal, stumbled.

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

Some substitutions on sixty-eight minutes.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Sancho.

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

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

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

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

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

We live in odd times.

Two very late substitutions and a debut.

Mathis Amouogu for Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Enzo.

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

Shumaira Mhueka for Enzo.

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

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

“Oh for six.”

Sigh.

It stayed 4-0.

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

Sometimes, the pigeon is a very stupid pigeon.

Sometimes, there is oncoming traffic.

Sometimes it is impossible to avoid the pigeon.

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

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

Southampton Football Club; you are a very stupid pigeon.

We crept up to fourth place.

My post on Facebook was an easy one.

“Four goals. Fourth place. Fourkinell.”

No game for me for almost two weeks now.

I’m off for a lie-down.