Tales From The Doug Ellis

Posted on February 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 22 February 2025.

Those two away games at Brighton were tough, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

Laced-up boots and corduroys.

Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

They call us the Cockney Cowboys.”

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

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

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

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

There, I said it.

The moment has been coming.

Let’s hope that Dodge are safe by then.

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

Ten years ago. It seems like five minutes ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bollocks.

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

Frome Town 1 Marlow Town 2.

Game on.

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

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

I punched the air.

Frome Town 3 Marlow Town 2.

Great stuff.

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

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

All the Chelsea tickets were digital for this game.

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

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

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

Every stadium has a few secrets.

Villa Park?

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

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

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

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

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

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

£32 later, I had one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Benches roll-call :

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucarella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Nkunku

Neto

“Or something like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The away choir sang his name.

“Oh, Enzo Fernandez.”

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

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

The home fans were quiet. Ridiculously so.

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

We were well on top and playing well.

Worryingly so.

A curler from Nkunku did not bother Emiliano Martinez.

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

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

I sighed and nodded in silent agreement.

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

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

“If only.”

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

“IT’S SALOMON!”

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

Neil and I pulled “here we go” faces.

The Holte End came to life.

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

They were fucking loud.

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

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

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

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

Seventy-five minutes had passed.

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

Jadon Sancho replaced Nkunku.

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

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

Stirring stuff.

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

It seemed we were hanging on.

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

Fucksake.

Neil was indeed right.

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

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

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

“Look at these people!”

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

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

1985

PANORAMA

Tales From A Night Of Firing Blanks

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

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

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

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

How romantic.

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

I feared a repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me : “You’re Albie, aren’t you?”

Albie : “Yes, mate. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

Shudder.

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

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

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

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

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

The eighties…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our team?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pedro Neto swapped flanks to accommodate Sancho on the left.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

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

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

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

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

Fackinell.

Another shot from Neto but blocked.

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

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

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

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

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

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

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

Bollocks.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll be your toothpaste” I replied.

John, Gary and I were unconsolable.

“Worse than Saturday.”

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

“Nothing.”

“What has Maresca been telling them all week?”

“Fackinell.”

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

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

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

The end was nigh.

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

We were 0-3 down.

Bollocks.

I fumed at Tombsy.

“Did you see Colwill there? Fucking disgrace.”

Way too late, Maresca made three substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1985 : Chelsea

2025 : Frome Town

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on February 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

So, two games at Brighton in seven days.

On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.

On Friday 14 February in the League.

Both games at 8pm.

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

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

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

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

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

Northern Premier / 726

Southern League Premier – Central / 560

Southern League Premier – South / 593

Isthmian Premier / 714

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

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

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

“What’s the pub called, again?”

They were already lost.

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

Fackinell.

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

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

I wasn’t so sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How’s that for synchronicity?

Let’s head back to February 1985.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It left at 6.58pm.

I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.

Perfect timing.

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

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

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

Enzo Maresca chose this line up.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Nkunku

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

I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.

“Yeah, I know.”

The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.

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

“C’mon Chels.”

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

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

Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.

Bollocks.

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

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

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

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

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

An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.

“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”

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

“It’s Salomon!”

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

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

Fucksake.

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

Crap.

This was a grey and passionless performance.

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

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

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

How ‘eighties.

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

Bollocks.

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

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

A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

“Cam On Chowlsea.”

“Carefree.”

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

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

On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Tyrique George for Sancho.

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

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

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

Oh boy.

The game ended and we were out.

Out of both domestic cups in early February.

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

Shocking.

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

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

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

Fackinell.

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

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

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

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

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

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

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

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

The Setting Sun.

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

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

A Little Bit Of America.

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

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

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

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

It got me thinking.

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

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

Pre-Match Razzle.

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

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

1985, eh? More of that later.

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

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

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

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

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

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

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

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

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

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

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

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

Wigan Athletic Away.

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

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

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

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

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

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

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

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

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

It was the done thing.

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

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

Brilliant times.

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

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

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

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

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

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

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

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

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

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

Blimey.

That must be a record.

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

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

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

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

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

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

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

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

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

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

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

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

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

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

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

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

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

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

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

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

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

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

Well done.

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

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

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

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

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

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

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

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

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

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

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

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

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

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

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

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

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

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From A Painful Watch

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

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

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

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

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

But also football.

Fackinell.

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

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

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

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

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

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

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

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

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

Incidentally, just for the record :

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

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

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

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

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

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

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

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

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

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

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

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

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

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

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

Oh boy.

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

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

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

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

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

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

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

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

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

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

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

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

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

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

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

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

Bollocks.

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

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

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

The second half, then. Do I have to?

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

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

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

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

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

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

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

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

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

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

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

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

At City, he had his own low point.

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

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

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

City 3 Chelsea 1.

PRE

MATCH

Tales From A Must-Win Game

Posted on January 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 20 January 2025.

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

“This is a must-win” game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My diary mentions “no fighting at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Bournemouth, Wolves brought the full three thousand.

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

JD and I looked on disapprovingly.

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

“The game’s gone.”

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

Our team?

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

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a really decent start.

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

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

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

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

“Any croutons.”

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

The game continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Offside by a mile.”

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

Goal.

I could hardly believe it.

Tosin ran towards the Matthew Harding Lower.

I snapped.

But I could not believe it.

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

Robin, in Houston : “THTCAUN.”

Charles, in Dallas : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in Fulham : “COMLD.”

Lovely stuff.

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

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

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

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez”.

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

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

Doherty pushed it home.

Ugh.

“Spin that wheel, Sanchez.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A scream from me, a slide from him.

GET IN.

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

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

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

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

Welcome back, Trev.

Moises Caicedo was steady and solid.

Thankfully, Wolves faded as we improved.

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

Some substitutions.

77 minutes :

Axel Disasi for James, a warm ovation.

Malo Gusto for Dewsbury-Hall.

84 minutes :

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Madueke, a league debut.

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

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

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

See you there

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 1985

Tales From Gus Mears’ Club

Posted on January 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Morecambe : 11 January 2025.

Before we hit a spate of home games at ridiculous times on ridiculous days, here was a traditional 3pm kick-off on a Saturday.

For the second time in five seasons, we were to play Morecambe in the Third Round of the FA Cup. Back in 2020/21, on Saturday 10 January, we beat The Shrimpers 4-0 at a closed Stamford Bridge. Four years and one day later, we were to meet again.

Our FA Cup run that season ended in defeat at Wembley, but the start of it seemed to be themed around the comic Eric Morecambe. We played a home game against his hometown team in the third round and then the side, Luton Town, that he developed a deep love for, eventually becoming the club president, in round four. We defeated Luton Town 3-1, but Frank Lampard was sacked the very next day.

Us against Morecambe in 2021?

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Emerson

Gilmour – Mount

Hudson-Odoi – Havertz – Ziyech

Werner

So much has happened since, eh?

There are none left in 2025.

On the drive up to London in the morning, I said to my fellow passengers that there would be no players from the afternoon’s game who would still be playing in four years’ time.

Controversial? I am not so sure. Let’s hope I am wrong. We need some sort of continuity, or modern football becomes even more difficult to appreciate and respect.

Over to you, Chelsea.

While PD and Parky were re-acquainted with “The Eight Bells” and Ron – more FA Cup games, 64, than any other Chelsea player – and Glenn headed off to Stamford Bridge nice and early, I had some time to kill.

I had set off from Frome at 6.45am and three hours later I had arrived at my new parking spot on Charleville Road. I fancied a new routine on this cold but pristine morning in West London. I wolfed down a tasty breakfast at a new spot – “Hazel Café” – on the North End Road and then took a tube from West Kensington to Earl’s Court.

For a leisurely hour I walked south from Earls Court to Stamford Bridge, and my path took me through Brompton Cemetery, where I was keen to locate the final resting place of our club’s founder Henry Augustus “Gus” Mears, and to hopefully capture a few wintry photographs of the gravestones with the bulk of the East Stand behind. I have only walked through Brompton Cemetery once or twice before while en route to a game at Chelsea, and I remember being struck by its gothic undertones.

I fired up my ‘phone to find the exact location of the final resting place of our founder, and luckily it was just off the main walkway. Just before, I spotted the ornate art-deco tombstone of Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading light in the suffragette movement.

I made my way south.

Looming to the west, the steel roof supports of the East Stand at Stamford Bridge were almost lost in the glare from the winter sun.

The gravestone of Gus Mears is unpretentious and did not strike me as being particularly ornate or over-fussy. There are simple words to describe, in our eyes, his most formidable achievement in his thirty-eight years.

HENRY AUGUSTUS MEARS

FOUNDER OF THE CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB

He is buried with his son, Henry Frank Mears, who died in the First World War aged just nineteen.

The tombstone might be plain and understated, but the edifice which it faces more than makes up for it.

Stamford Bridge has been our home since 1905.

What memories lie within.

As I edged closer to the East Stand, I walked over to the railway-line and tried my best to take some photographs of our stadium from a never-previously photographed viewpoint. It was lovely to do so. It reinforced my love for this little piece of real estate in London SW6.

I popped into the hotel, very briefly, to chat with Ron and Glenn, but then zipped down to southern Fulham, arriving in the pub at 12.15pm. The day, thus far, had been magnificent. A cold fresh Saturday morning skirting Stamford Bridge. What could possibly be any better?

There were laughs with the usual suspects in “The Eight Bells” but the pub was a lot quieter than usual. I had spotted many Morecambe fans, in town early, and bedecked in red scarves, looking for watering holes around Stamford Bridge, and a couple had made it to our local, although with any club colours clearly hidden.

PD, Parky and I were joined by Dave, Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Leigh, Jimmy the Greek, Ian, Nick the Greek, and Nick the Greek’s good lady.

Ours, of course, was not the only FA Cup tie in London on this day. Brentford were at home to Plymouth Argyle, also at 3pm, and there was to be the Leyton Orient vs. Derby County game at 6pm.

Mark – a guy from Frome, but now living in Derby, and a Derby County fan – was off to the latter game and wanted to call in to have a chat with PD and myself before they moved over to East London. I met up with him at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town game in October, the first time that our paths had crossed since school days. However, on his way into London in a mini-bus with friends they heard that the game at Leyton Orient was called-off. However, Mark and his two Derby mates spent a nice while with us, and we chatted about all things football.

I had to laugh a while back when Mark told me that the Ram logo from the old main stand roof at the now dismantled Baseball Ground is currently in his shed. As far as stadia memorabilia goes, that must win some sort of award.

We left the three Derby lads to it and set off for the game. I was inside at 2.30pm.

During the afternoon, I chatted with Rob and Scott – friends in The Sleepy Hollow – about our plans for attending the FIFA World Club Cup in June. Rob, along with his wife Alex and his mate Rob, will be alongside Glenn and little old me in Philadelphia. I had to laugh when Scott explained how he had an even bigger nightmare buying tickets than me. The procedure via the FIFA website wasn’t too clear, nor easy. Each applicant had to set up their own account. It didn’t help my cause when I realised that I had inadvertently used Glenn’s access code for my two tickets, and so I had to gamble that my code would work for him. After a nervous ten minutes, he was in.

We were in.

See you in Philly.

The minutes ticked down and I looked at the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen.

Us against Morecambe in 2025?

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Lavia

Neto – Nkunku – Felix – George

Guiu

Or something like that.

Pedro Neto was the only player retained from the game at Crystal Palace, and it surprised nobody.

I prefaced the day’s activity with a photo and a nod to Eric Morecambe on “Facebook.”

“We’re playing all the right passes, but not necessarily in the right order.”

The game began.

Well, I was tempted to call this “Tales From The Cemetery And The Morgue”.

I know it was “only” Morecambe, who were second-from-bottom of League Two, but the atmosphere at the game, throughout virtually every second of it, was bloody terrible. I felt sorry for any long-distance Chelsea supporter who was attending this as their first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.

There. I have got that out of my system.

All eyes were keenly focussed on the returning Reece James, and it was from his free-kick that Axel Disasi headed over the bar in the first two minutes. Despite the likelihood of Morecambe defending deep (1996), Parking the Bus (2004), using a low-block (2021), they surprised us with a quick counter-attack down their right that Filip Jorgensen did well to parry. There was another Morecambe attack and shot soon after.

The away fans could be heard in the far corner.

“Football in a library.”

I guess “morgue” didn’t scan.

The Chelsea chances kept materialising in a packed penalty area in front of The Shed. A shot from Joao Felix, off for a corner, then over from the resulting corner from the same player.

Another header from another corner.

A Tosin header crashed against the bar from a Pedro Neto corner.

Disasi over the bar too.

Alan and PD alongside me were getting frustrated with a lack of drive, and a lackadaisical approach, but in the defence of the players it is sometimes difficult to raise a tempo when there is simply no space to move.

It wasn’t brilliant stuff, but chances were being created.

On twenty-eight minutes, Neto attempted to turn back the ball from the goal-line, but a defender jumped up and the ball hit his arm. The referee had no choice but to point to the spot. Sadly, Christopher Nkunku’s penalty save was at an easy height for the Morecambe ‘keeper Harry Burgoyne to save. The ball ran out to Nkunku, but the ‘keeper blocked again. Burgoyne had been the star of the show thus far. For Chelsea, Felix was often involved and was piling up scoring chances. On the wings Tyrique George and Pedro Neto were industrious but without end product. Marc Guiu and Nkunku were yet to get involved.

Just after, Disasi clouted a ball from his own half towards a totally non-existent run from a non-existent Chelsea player. It had my vote for the worst pass of the season thus far.

An effort from Guiu went close. Yet another effort from Felix, but Burgoyne met it with a very fine save. There was a tidy spin from George out on the left, but Nkunku’s header flew over the bar.

On thirty-nine minutes, with the place still silent, a move broke down and the ball spun out to Tosin. There was a semi-audible whisper of “shoot” and the centre-back moved the ball on and did so. After so many misses from players further up the field, there was almost laughter in the air as his shot was deflected past the hapless Burgoyne to give us a 1-0 lead.

I looked towards Alan. I saw him pause. At the same moment, we had the exact same thought. I took off my glasses and was just about to offer them to him. Instead, he donned his own glasses.

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

Ernie : “Come on my little fat hairy legs.”

We laughed.

“God, we have been together too long.”

Just after, the same scenario. Tosin on the ball, shouts to “shoot” but the long shot whizzed just past the post.

From the Morecambe fans :

“1-0 up, you still don’t sing.”

Half-time arrived and everyone was rather non-plussed. I wondered what the mood was like at half-time at our FA Cup game against Wigan Athletic, at Stamford Bridge, on Saturday 5 January 1985. During that game, which I did not attend, we had somehow contrived to let in two first-half goals to the away team – Paul Jewell, Mike Newell – but thankfully we managed to even up the score in the second half via goals from Pat Nevin and David Speedie.

Us against Wigan Athletic in 1985?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Rougvie

Nevin – Spackman – Thomas

Davies – Dixon – Speedie

There would be a replay later.

The gate was just 16,220. It had been a mixed day for FA Cup crowds; 36,000 at Liverpool vs. Aston Villa, 32,000 at Manchester United vs. Bournemouth, 29,000 at Tottenham vs. Charlton Athletic, but just 11,000 at West Ham vs. Port Vale.

My 1984/85 retrospective over, we return to 2025.

At the break, the manager made three changes.

Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Marc Cucarella for Lavia.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

The introduction of Cucarella seemed to be the catalyst in a much-improved second forty-five minutes. It was his burst down below us that set up a shot for Renato Veiga after the Spaniard’s cross was cleared. Veiga’s shot was parried by Burgoyne but Nkunku was on hand to smash in the rebound.

No balloon. I guess he some respect for the opposition. Fair play. In fact, the celebration was very muted indeed. Nkunku doesn’t look the happiest camper at the moment.

The chances stacked up again. Yet another Felix effort flew over. Cucarella came inside and saw his right-footed shot hit the side netting. A Disasi header at a corner came close.

The away team had given up attacking in any form at all by now.

On seventy minutes, the ball was played inside by the improving George, and Sancho must have heard a shout from Tosin as he let the ball run through his legs.

Another “shoot!” and this time Tosin’s effort was quite magnificent, the ball curling and crashing into the net from twenty-five yards.

His run towards my waiting camera was euphoric.

Five minutes later, George played a ball square down below us and Felix took a touch and delicately aimed a slow but precise roller into the Morecambe net at the near post. His goal was well-deserved. Another muted celebration.

Two minutes later, The Sleepy Hollow was treated to more excellent build-up play below us. That man Cucarella – his energy had revitalised us – passed to Felix who danced and weaved ahead of his marker and then unleashed a curler past Burgoyne at the far post.

Beautiful.

There was a late rally from the away team with two shots on goal – one a tired roller at Jorgensen, one wildly over – but Chelsea were good value for the 5-0.

The referee, perhaps wisely, played only two seconds of injury-time.

Game over.

Into Round Four we go.

Our next smattering of league games at Stamford Bridge were finalised using a random date generator, copious amounts of acid and a British Rail train timetable from 1974.

Tuesday 15 January : Bournemouth.

Monday 20 January : Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Monday 3 February : West Ham United.

Wednesday 26 February : Southampton.

Have I ever mentioned what I think of modern football?

Outside : Brompton Cemetery.

Inside : Stamford Bridge.

Tales From The Famous, The Famous Chelsea

Posted on January 10, 2025 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2025.

As the weekend drew near, and as I struggled to quell an irritating hacking cough, there were reports that snow was on its way to most parts of England. As if the thought of an away trip to Crystal Palace in the first week of January wasn’t bad enough, the added threat of snow just about topped it. More often than not, the weather is crap at Selhurst Park, and our usual viewing position is towards the front, in an area not covered too well by the stand roof.

The drive into Selhurst can be tiresome too, so as the short working week ended, I was hardly relishing this game. I just hoped that my cough didn’t develop further, and that there were no sore throats, headaches and shivers to come.

In light of my far from perfect state of health, I allowed myself a little lie in. I picked up PD at 8.30am and Parky at 9am for our “first footing” of the New Year. Thankfully, although far from perfect, I felt reasonably OK. As I headed south and then east, down towards the A303, there was a certain degree of peace and calm in the car, and I was more than happy that I was not barking out coughs every five minutes. The fields and hedgerows were dusted with frost and looking pretty photogenic, but I was happy to be in my self-contained bubble of warm air.

We stopped for a couple of breakfast rolls en route, and I was soon heading off the M3 and onto the M25.

The plan was to attempt a couple of pubs pre-match. At midday, I parked-up near “The Old Fox & Hounds” near West Croydon station, and we spent an hour or so with Clive who sits next to me in The Sleepy Hollow at Chelsea. The early afternoon’s entertainment involved Tottenham scoring an early goal against Newcastle United, but then managing to lose 2-1. Lovely.

My round consisted of “two pints of Carling and can you boil up some hot water for this Lemsip please, love?”

From here, I drove the two miles north to a pre-ordered parking space near Thornton Heath, and our route took us right past “The Pawson Arms” where we had enjoyed a pint before last-season’s game. I parked on Woodville Road and then met up with some pals at “The Prince George” which is just about the only away pub at Palace these days.

As I approached the packed boozer, I was a little taken aback by the sight before me. Not only did I not recognise a single Chelsea supporter on the pavement outside the pub, but there were impromptu fences set up outside, primarily to stop the clientele from encroaching onto the busy road, but it looked a brutal sight all the same. It brought back memories of fans being caged in at stadia back in the ‘eighties.

“Please do not feed the animals” came to mind.

Thankfully, near one of the doors I spotted a gaggle of faces I knew. Clive had disappeared but came back with a lager that I didn’t really want but supped all the same. Amongst familiar faces was a new one, Caroline from South Africa, her first-ever Chelsea away game, and I could hardly imagine how excited she must have felt. My first away game was at Eastville, the home of Bristol Rovers, in 1975. In Tim Rolls’ excellent new book “The First Time” I love that a supporter from mid-Wales was able to detail this match as his first game. It brought back a few memories from almost fifty years ago. Thank you, Mike Davies.

Talking of games long gone, my retrospective look at season 1984/85 – Chelsea’s first season of top-flight football since 1978/79 – has now reached the New Year.

On Tuesday 1 January 1985, Chelsea were at home against Nottingham Forest. On this occasion, I went up to London with Glenn via my father’s car. At such times, Dad was called into action, and I suspect that at the time I took it all for granted, as teenagers are wont to do. My parents would have gone off to partake in a mixture of sightseeing and shopping while we were at Chelsea, but the truth is that their whole day out was to enable me to get up to London for the football. Now, this fills me with a deep feeling of love for them both. My father would have been sixty-one at the time – not too older than me now – and although the roads were not so busy in the ‘eighties, it still represented a heavy day of driving. And of traipsing around London from shop to shop, from site to site, from sight to sight.

We left Frome at 9.15am and were parked up at Ealing Common, our usual destination to enable us to catch a train to Fulham Broadway, at 11.30am. There was a pre-match pie and chips on the North End Road and we were inside Stamford Bridge at 1.15pm.

The “Back Benchers” on New Year’s Day 1985?

Alan, Simon, Dave, Paul, Glenn, myself, Leggo and Mark.

Although we were by far the better team, this wasn’t a great game at all. We had to wait until the seventieth minute for cult hero Pat Nevin to provide the inspiration. He jinked past a defender, reached the goal-line and sent over an exquisite cross that cut out the ‘keeper Hans Segers. This allowed another crowd favourite Micky Thomas to dive-in with a header. I gave my man of the match award to Eddie Niedzwiecki. I was relatively pleased with the gate of 21,552. My diary reported that Forest only brought around three hundred. Stamford Bridge was a fearsome place for away fans in those days.

After the game, we walked right back up the North End Road, probably the first time for me, and at West Kensington station, Glenn nervously spotted one of the Chelsea fans who had attacked him after the United game a few days earlier. Back at Ealing Common, we had an hour to wait until my parents finally arrived back at 7pm.

On the way home, we stopped off for a drink at “The Wagon & Horses” at Beckhampton on the A4, and it fills me with joy that we still occasionally stop off here for a post-Chelsea drink forty years on. All of these little examples of drinks with my parents are gorgeous gifts from the past as I delve into my old diaries. If I am honest, I am still thrilled that I had enjoyed a pre-match beer in August 1984 against Sunderland with my father in that old West Stand bar, a moment previously long forgotten.

Our pre-Chelsea drink completed in 2025, Clive and I drifted away for the short march up Whitehorse Lane to the away turnstiles, the last of the group to depart. It was approaching 2.30pm.

Thankfully no rain, nor snow, but a long old line at the turnstiles. A couple of formidable faces from our violent past barged in and we all smirked.

“Nobody is going to stop those two buggers pushing in Clive.”

We were in, and we had thankfully missed all of the tedious pyrotechnics and associated gimmicks that accompanies top level football in the UK these days.

I had swapped tickets; Clive had mine in row eleven, I was further up in row eighteen just in front of the Gloucester lads and just behind Ali and Nick. This enabled me a slightly better view, I hoped. Well, I hoped it vain. It was still shite.

The game kicked off just as a loud and proud “One Man Went To Mow” boomed around the Arthur Wait Stand.

I caught up with the starting eleven.

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Very soon into the match I heard a chant that is not often aired : “We are the famous, the famous Chelsea.”

It’s only us and “The Geordies” that sing that from memory. I have always liked it.

Playing in that off-white kit, Chelsea immediately took control of the ball and dominated the play. Not long into the contest, Josh Acheampong won the ball with a beautifully cushioned touch that set us off on a lovely move, coursing through the middle of the park with pace and verve. I hoped that it would set the tone for not only the youngster’s performance but for us as a team too.

I was already bobbing about in the Arthur Wait Stand like a fishing float, unable to see much of the play to my left, when the ball was pushed forward by Marc Cucarella towards Jadon Sancho. I just about saw the player shape to take the ball but then move away, but the detail was lost on me as I was attempting to watch the game through a hundred bodies. There was, however, an appreciative purr from the supporters – the taller ones at least – around me. I joined the dots and realised he had carried out a perfect “dummy.”

However, for the next few seconds, I simply had no idea what was going on.

Sancho could have stuck the ball up his shirt and ran with it between Palace defenders while sticking his tongue out and laughing uncontrollably, I would not have known.

However, I then saw the ball end up at the feet of Cole Palmer, who I saw advance and slot the ball in at the far post, past the despairing Dean Henderson.

GET IN.

The away section roared.

Palace 0 Chelsea 1.

I tried my best to capture one, just one, decent photo of the scorer’s familiar celebration, as the crowd roared around me.

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

There was some nice follow-up football from us as we dominated the play. There was a lovely piece of old-fashioned wing play from Pedro Neto deep into the Palace box, and shots from Nicolas Jackson and Enzo. The impressive Josh headed over at the far post from a corner. He looked calm and in control. An excellent first-half from him.

The home team had a little flurry, and then came again just after the half-hour when the mobile Jean-Philippe Mateta advanced but shot wide.

At times our approach play was a little slow – Levi Colwill, I am looking at you – but we continued to boss the game. There was a fantastic through-ball from Palmer that hit Jackson’s run to perfection. He strode on, confident, but the shot with the outside of his right foot blazed just past the left-hand post.

During the first half we were treated to a couple of unorthodox saves from Sanchez, just to keep us on our toes. At times the man looks like a defender asked to go in goal when all other options have run out, at other times he hints at being a top class ‘keeper.

A 2-0 lead at the break would have been totally deserved, but it was not to be.

At half-time, virtually all spectators at Selhurst Park ignored whatever nonsense the Palace cheerleaders were up to on the pitch.

Puke.

Soon into the second half, with the home team energised, there was a break down the Palace right. I barked out “too easy” a nano-second before a fellow spectator yelled out the exact same two words. We watched as a cross from Daniel Munoz found Ebere Eze but were relieved to see him prod the ball wide.

“Fackinell Chels.”

Just after, pure Sanchez. Another ridiculously unorthodox save, followed by ridiculous distribution and a – thankfully – spurned Palace chance.

The second half continued, and it was a far less convincing performance from Chelsea. I was hoping to whirl my camera into action to capture wave after wave of attacking verve in front of me, but it was all rather stop-start.

Neto was sent sprawling in the corner of the penalty box and we were all howling obscenities at the referee, the lino, the crowd, Stockley Park, the Premier League, UEFA, FIFA, the United Nations, NATO, but nobody was listening.

At 1-0, we were nervous and worried.

We tried to apply some worthy pressure.

On seventy minutes, two shots in quick succession. Firstly, there was a firm effort from Enzo. Then, after a pass from the always impressive Moises Caicedo, Jackson spurned a chance, the ball sliding wide after Henderson managed a touch.

Palace were in it though. There was a Mateta shot but Colwill blocked to deflect over.

On eighty-one minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Jackson and tried his best to run himself into the game.

Just after, the Chelsea supporters sang “is this a library?” to the home support and it made me realise how ridiculously quiet they had been. Apart from a volley of noise at the start, and maybe a little flag-waving from the centrally located Holmesdale Road Ultras, the home support had been almost non-existent.

Alas, we lost possession when Sanchez passed to Palmer, quite deep. To our horror, the ball was pushed to Eze who selflessly passed inside for Mateta to thump home.

Palace 1 Chelsea 1.

Now the buggers made some noise.

However, after only a few seconds, modern football took over, and it made a few of us feel quite nauseous. Rather than let the home support generate its own noise and let off steam in their own way, there was an obnoxious intrusion of the infantile “Boom Boom Boom Boom” that sounded like something that might be heard at a teenager’s birthday party or at a Butlin’s weekender. I gazed over at the terrace to my right and saw more than a few fully grown adults shaking away to this musical monstrosity.

Modern football. Simply fuck off.

Late on, Noni Madueke replaced Sancho, but it was all too little and all too late.

Our recent struggles continued; this was just our second point out of twelve.

We sloped back to the car, then headed north through the streets of south London, and inevitably found ourselves heading over Wandsworth Bridge and up to Fulham Broadway before heading out west on the A4 and M4.

Out towards Swindon, the snow finally came and the driving became slower, and more difficult. Despite speeding restrictions, cars sped past us, and if that isn’t a decent enough metaphor for us as we continue to slip down the league table, I had best give up.

Next up, an FA Cup tie against Morecambe at Stamford Bridge in 2025 and an FA Cup tie against Wigan Athletic in 1985.

See you later.

Tales From Two Firsts

Posted on January 1, 2025 by Chris Axon

Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea : 30 December 2024.

This was a new ground for me. In my fifty years of following Chelsea at various locations, I had never yet ventured as far as Portman Road in the Suffolk town of Ipswich. In fact, I had only ever visited the town twice before, for work in 2003 and 2009, and on both of those occasions I was based to the south of the town, so this was to be my first visit to the town centre itself.

Once it was eventually decided when the game was to be played, I booked up a hotel close to the stadium. I didn’t fancy an “in and out mission” on the day, and I also fancied a drink. This would be my first domestic drink-up at a game since Newcastle away last season.

A few years ago, the two biggest stadia within the English and Welsh professional pyramid that I had not visited were Ipswich Town and Huddersfield Town. I crossed off the latter on opening day 2018, and now it was the turn of Ipswich. What are the remaining major stadia that I am yet to visit? Notts County, Bradford City and Millwall immediately spring to mind as being the three biggest on the list.

Talking of “firsts”, there was a huge “first” that occurred just over forty years ago on Saturday 29 December 1984.

On that day, I saw Manchester United play for the very first time.

Following our promotion to the old First Division in May, Chelsea were starting to find our collective feet in the First Division. Although there had been dropped points along the way, there had been an excellent away win at Everton, creditable away draws at Arsenal, Tottenham and Sheffield Wednesday, and two fine home wins against West Ham United and Liverpool, amongst others.

This was a glamour game for sure. Although United had last won the league in 1967, they were the biggest-supported club in the country and were a decent-enough team at the time. From a fan’s perspective, I was very keen to see how many supporters they would bring and how the numbers would compare with Liverpool who had visited three weeks earlier.

It was a familiar routine for me for my pre-match; a visit to West End shopping areas – purely window shopping – and a spin down to Fulham Broadway. My diary informs me that I darted into the long-gone Pie & Mash shop at the southern end of the North End Road, and I then met up with two pals outside the ground who advised me to nip along and buy myself a Benches ticket for £4. I have no recollection of this. I imagine I was previously unaware of the need to get a ticket. Was the Benches ticket-only for this one game? I am not sure.

On a cold day, we were inside as early as 12.15pm. There was no spare money for pre-match drinks in those days. I was a poor student, but just happy to be at Chelsea as often as possible.

There were nine of us in a row at the very rear of the Benches.

My diary called us “the Back Benchers.”

From the North to the South :

Paul from Brighton, Alan from Bromley, Dave from St. Albans, Richard from St. Albans, Simon and his brother Andy from Sandridge, me, Leggo from Bedford, Mark from Sunbury.

Simon and Andy were momentarily famous twenty years ago when the video of them at Highbury for the Champions League Quarter-Final went as near to viral as 2004 would allow.

I still see all eight lads at Chelsea to this day.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Joey Jones

Nevin – Keith Jones – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Davies

My notes said that United brought about 4,000 but Liverpool had brought more. There was a little “mixing” in the centre pens and a few punches were inevitably exchanged. It’s sad to admit to it now, but I remember being awkwardly thrilled to see the red shirts of the United players as they walked out from the East Stand tunnel.

Chelsea began on top in the first twenty minutes. The ex-United midfielder Mickey Thomas set up Gordon Davies who volleyed home. Mass celebrations, what noise, another scalp for this exciting team?

Sadly, the visitors went 2-1 ahead by half-time. Frank Stapleton crossed for Mark Hughes to head home and then Bryan Robson slipped a pass through to Remi Moses who slotted the ball in. David Speedie came on as a substitute for Keith Jones at the break. A scrambled third goal by United, with Frank Stapleton getting the final touch, was met with groans, and there was added ignominy as Kerry Dixon missed a penalty with ten minutes remaining. My notes said that Mike Duxbury should have been sent off at least twice and that our best player was, perhaps, Nigel Spackman.

In Frome that night, I bumped into PD and Glenn, and I am not wholly sure why Glenn didn’t join us in the Benches. He travelled up with the Frome / Manchester United coach though, so he may have arrived late. He told me that he almost got hit as he approached the United coach after the game by some Chelsea lads.

So much for 1984.

With dropped points against Everton and then Fulham, I set off for Suffolk rather concerned for our health, despite Ipswich still waiting to win their first game at home in the league this season.

I called for PD bang on 7.30am and I called for Parky not long after. There was a sub-standard breakfast at McDonalds in Melksham, but we were on our way.

On this day, Chelsea was set to announce loyalty point thresholds for access codes for the FIFA World club Cup games next summer. These were to be shared at 9am.

At 9am, I stopped at Membury Services in Wiltshire and my 110 points meant that I was to be given a 10.30am time slot. At 10.30am, or rather just a minute after, I was stopped at South Mimms Services in Hertfordshire where I accessed the Chelsea ticket page.

I was in.

I hoped that the rest of everything else Chelsea-related would go as well later.

The drive to Suffolk was fine. The M25 was clear, the A12 was clear. The skies were clear too. It was a glorious Winter Day. It felt good to be seeing different roads for a change, different scenery. We drove right past Colchester United’s stadium by the side of the A12.

At just after midday, I was parked up at our hotel around half-a-mile from Portman Road.

I had been given a seemingly decent plan of pubs by a friend, Rob, who would meet up with us later. We caught a cab down to the marina and at just after 12.45pm we were supping our first lagers of the day at “The Lord Nelson.”

On the trip to Ipswich, I had tried to think of players that had played for both teams.

Colin Viljoen. Kevin Wilson. Jason Cundy. Craig Forrest.

I posted this on “Facebook” and a few more followed.

Omari Hutchinson – oh damn, of course.

Mark Stein – I had forgotten that.

Trevoh Chalobah – and that.

“The Lord Nelson” was a great little pub, and it dated from 1652.

I began with a couple of “Amstel” lagers.

From there, we trotted over to “Isaacs” on the marina. Just as Kevin, a Chelsea fan from Ipswich itself, came out to take a photo of us outside the glass-fronted pub, Kalvin Phillips waited behind the wheel of his huge car. His career stalled after his move from Leeds United to Manchester City and he is now part of Keiran McKenna’s squad at Portman Road. He is the player that Gareth Southgate pined for recently.

Yeah, I know.

We met up with Noel, Gabby and Paul, enjoying the mid-afternoon sun as the “Madri” lagers went down well.

Next up, at 3.45pm, was “The Thomas Wolsey”, another decent pub in the town centre. This one used to be run by Alan Brazil. The pubs were not, yet, particularly busy, but that did not matter.

“A Cruzcampo please barman.”

From there, a five-minute walk to “The Plough” where we arrived at 4.15pm. There were a few familiar faces here; Lee from Essex, Jimmy the Greek, Dave and Glenn the brothers, Liam and his father, Pete – last seen everywhere – but pride of place goes to Rob, the guy in charge of the pub crawl, and our mutual friend Steve, who goes all the way back to that 1984/85 season as he was on the very same Human Geography course as me in Stoke-on-Trent.

“Peroni please barman.”

Apparently, this pub was meant for “home fans only” but I didn’t see any signs. Everyone was on fine form, what a great pre-match.

Incidentally, talking of “firsts”, Steve – with his twin brother Sean – travelled up with me in 1986 from Stoke for my first-ever visit to Old Trafford, but that’s a story for another day.

At about 7pm we strolled off to the game. It was only about a fifteen-minute walk.

On the drive up to Ipswich, I had joked with the lads that despite us arriving in Ipswich at around midday, we should not be too surprised if we were huffing and puffing our way through the turnstiles with five minutes to go before kick-off. Well, on this night, we surpassed ourselves. Despite a delay getting in, I was inside with a whole fifteen minutes to spare.

Portman Road was as I expected it really, although the double-decker stands behind each goal have been additions since the team were in their heyday in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. My mate Steve has a season ticket at Portman Road these days, although I am sure he won’t mind me reminding him that he favoured Derby County when I first knew him.

Chris : “More clubs that Jack Niclaus.”

Steve : “More clubs than Peter Stringfellow.”

Rob : “More clubs than Tiger Woods.”

Before we knew it, Portman Road was engulfed in the heavy sulphurous fumes from the fireworks that seem to be a pre-requisite of many top-level match days in 2024.

We had none of this shite in 1984.

Portman Road was full to the rafters, just a little shy of 30,000. It’s a nice and neat ground, well-proportioned, and – whisper it to Steve – not too dissimilar to Derby County’s old baseball Ground.

Us in 2024?

Jorgensen

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Felix

Nkunku

I loved the Ipswich Town pinstriped shirts, so reminiscent of the good old days of clean and crisp shirts by Adidas and Le Coq Sportif. This one is by Umbro, and it’s a cracker.

We were in a solid block of three thousand in the upper tier of the East Stand, the Cobbold Stand. I was stood with Gary and John, just a few rows from the front, a fine view. This stand was named after the family who presided over the Alf Ramsey League Championship season of 1961/62 and the Bobby Robson cup triumphs in 1978 and 1981. However, I always think that unless we are behind the goal at away venues, the involvement – and noise – is never as good. It’s just something about being stood en masse at one end.

We looked a bit edgy – “not at the races” – and it was the home team that forced the upper hand in the early exchanges.

After twelve minutes, the ball was pushed forward by Leif Davis, whoever he is, and it met the run by Liam Delap, who pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen. To our horror, the referee John Brooks pointed to the spot, and Delap drilled home the ball into the left-corner, just beyond Jorgensen’s dive.

Fackinell.

Ipswich Town 1 Chelsea 0.

Jorgensen made an absolute stunner of a save soon after, tipping a rasping effort from that man Delap over the bar.

Halfway through the first-half, a sweet low curler from Cole Palmer smacked the base of a post from a free-kick, and the ball was hacked away before a Chelsea player could pounce.

A cross from Palmer cut out everyone and Joao Felix smacked the ball in to the goal, but our celebrations were cut short with a signal that we all dread : VAR check.

A long wait.

Sigh.

No goal.

Chelsea created a few half-chances, but the home side dug in and covered space, tackled hard, and looked more organised. Marc Cucarella shot wide, Moises Caicedo shot over.

Another Delap and Jorgensen shoot-out, thankfully our ‘keeper saved.

Delap was a real handful though.

Just before the break, a curler from Palmer was expertly saved by Christian Walton in the home goal.

The first half hadn’t been great, and I was frustrated with our support, many of whom were standing in silence. It reminded me of the League Cup tie at Middlesbrough last season and we were along the side on that night too.

Sigh.

What of the second-half, then?

We actually began strongly, with efforts from Felix and Madueke.

Alas, on fifty-three minutes, a disastrous pass from Axel Disasi was intercepted by Delap who kept the ball before passing to Omari Hutchinson. Our former youngster cleanly wrong-footed Jorgensen with a drilled shot back across the goal.

Ipswich Town 2 Chelsea 0.

Oh God.

The rest of the game was a blur really.

55 minutes : Nicolas Jackson for Joao Felix.

Christopher Nkunku had looked ill-placed to play upfront, to lead the line, and he hardly got a sniff, and we hoped that Jackson might inject some life into the team as Nkunku was shifted wider.

We just looked tired and jaded, without ideas, without energy.

65 minutes : Jadon Sancho for Nkunku.

Moving Nkunku out wide had not worked. If anything, the ever-willing Cucarella was more of a threat.

The Chelsea fans had almost given up by now.

To be fair to Sancho, he looked the liveliest of the lot during his cameo.

77 minutes : Malo Gusto for Disasi, the less said the better, and Pedro Neto for Madueke, average at best.

We conjured-up a couple of half-chances, no more than that, and there was still time for a lung-bursting run from Delap down in front of us, as if to rub it in. It has been a while since I have seen such an old-fashioned striker ply his trade in the topflight.

It ended 2-0 and we sloped off into the night.

Outside, next to a statue of Sir Bobby Robson, we gorged ourselves on hot dogs and burgers. We needed to be warmed-up, somehow.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United :

Pre-Game :

Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea :

Post-Game :

Postscript 1 :

After I had dropped Lord Parky off on Tuesday afternoon, and only around six miles from home, I was zapped by a policeman with a speed gun in the village of Rode. It was just what I needed. After our terrible results over the past ten days, I turned to PD in the passenger seat and said :

“Well, it looks like I will end up with more points than Chelsea this Christmas.”

Postscript 2 :

Well, I finally got through those nine Chelsea games in December. Five trips to London, one to Southampton, one to Almaty, one to Liverpool and one to Ipswich. I’ve seen the games, I’ve taken the photos, I’ve caught the flights, I’ve driven the car, I’ve written the blogs. It all resulted in over 10,000 views in one month, by far the highest monthly total since this site hit the newsstands in July 2013.

Thank you all so much.

See you at Selhurst Park next Saturday.

Tales From A Box

Posted on December 29, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2024.

Nobody likes sloppy seconds.

And that was a very sloppy second-half performance. We just about edged the first-half, but lost our way significantly after the break.

Right, that’s the match report done. What else happened on Boxing Day 2024?

I was up early for the game with Fulham. The alarm rang at 5.30am and I soon got into my morning routine. While my hometown prepared itself for the Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway game at 3pm – a relegation six-pointer – I crept around in the darkness and collected first PD and then Glenn. Then a quick spin through some back roads to collect Ron from his house at 7am and then on to collect Parky at 7.20am.

There were five-up in the car for the first time since Aston Villa a few weeks back, and this was only the third time this season that Ron has been with us. It was lovely to get the gang back together. As a “thank you” for the time we spend with Ron, the Chelsea Foundation very kindly gave Glenn a ticket for the Chelsea Foundation box for the Villa game, and today it was my turn. This allowed me to give my season ticket to Glenn who would be watching alongside Alan, Clive and PD in the Sleepy Hollow.

On the M4, as we headed west near Swindon, everything was quiet. Outside, the skies were a mixture of black and various dark grey hues. There were strong blocks of darkness, some low-lying cloud, but in truth it didn’t look like the sky at all, more a painter’s palette, with colours mixing and blurring. With the spots of water on my driver’s side window contorting an already ethereal scene, the effect was mesmerising. Then, suddenly appearing high, just through some gaps in the blotchy clouds, I spotted the moon, though it was the slimmest and feintest sliver of white, barely there, barely visible.

The road was almost devoid of traffic.

I stopped at Membury Services for a couple of cans of iced coffee to keep me going, but also a very stale bacon bap.

On the drive, I coolly stated that “Fulham never win at Chelsea. Their last win was in 1979 in the old Second Division.”

I drove into London bang on time. I dropped PD and Parky off near The Eight Bells at 9.30am and I dropped Ron and Glenn outside the main gates just after. I did a little driving around SW6 – some reconnaissance – to check out the area’s new parking regime. In the end, I parked, again, right outside the Italian restaurant that I used for the Shamrock Rovers game, which seemed strangely ages ago. Then, a brisk walk down to Stamford Bridge.

I had been keeping a secret from the chaps for this game. Our great friend Dave was over from his home in the South of France with his football-mad seven-year-old son Jared and I had managed to obtain two tickets for them via my friend Gary. Dave was originally from Dartford in Kent but I first met him out in Los Angeles when Chelsea played a couple of matches in the summer of 2007. At the time he was living in New York and only returned to England in around 2013. He was, memorably, with me when Demba Ba did his magic at Anfield that year. Since then, he moved to France. His son has top Chelsea pedigree; he was born on the same day that Chelsea won at West Bromwich Albion in 2017 to win our last league title. I visited Dave in Nice for a day in September 2023 while on holiday on the Italian Riviera, but the lads had not seen Dave for a good three years or so. We decided to keep their visit a surprise.

Dave and Jared, a keen footballer now, had encountered train problems en route but were waiting for me ahead of schedule at 10.15am. We met up with Glenn in the hotel bar and there were hugs and smiles. I handed over the two season tickets, just a few yards away from our seats, and then the three of them sped off to meet up with the lads in the pub near Putney Bridge.

I sat with Ron, and three long-time Chelsea fans – John, Mark and his mother – and waited for a few more of the other Chelsea players who take part in the pre-match hospitality to arrive. I was gasping for a drink, but was gasping at the price that I was charged for a small “Diet-Coke”; a mighty £3.58. It was nothing more than half-a-pint.

A dry bap, an expensive “Coke”, I was doing well.

I really enjoyed spending time with the three supporters, two of whom – Mark and John – I regularly see at the hotel. Both kept me occupied with stories from a shared Chelsea past. I had chatted to Mark at our mutual friend Gary’s funeral back in June, and Mark’s mother was there too. His mother had been born locally in Chelsea in 1940 and lived very close indeed to Stamford Bridge, possibly just off the Fulham Road. She explained how she got to know some of the players in the late ‘fifties, and how one of them – I forget who – was her late husband’s best man, and that two others were Mark’s Godparents.

Talk about Chelsea heritage.

Some players arrived.

Tommy Langley, Gary Chivers, Colin Pates, John Bumstead, David Lee, John Boyle.

They paired up and went on their way around the executive and hospitality areas at around midday. There was more chat with a few other Chelsea fans; a couple from Boston, their first match, a couple of lads from Norway.

At 1pm, I disappeared out of the hotel and soon find myself being welcomed into the Chelsea Foundation box that sits next to the Shed Wall inside the stadium, right down the southern end of the West Lower. Glenn had praised the lovely selection of food on offer at the Villa game, and I was looking forward to some better-quality food than I was served at Membury Services. Not long after I had sat at one of the two tables, I spotted a former player arrive.

Brian Bason played nineteen games for Chelsea between 1972 and 1977, and I think that he was taken aback that I recognised him. We had been friends on Facebook before my account was hacked in June, and I had actually forgotten that we were friends again on my new account. I enjoyed hearing about Brian’s Chelsea career and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was a boyhood fan of the club. I am not sure if it was his debut, but he told the story of him playing at Tottenham in October 1972 – and winning 1-0, of course – and being so thrilled that Ron Harris gave him a lift back to his house after the game.

“Ron wasn’t a dirty player. He was just hard and solid.”

We spoke about Brian’s blooter against Carlisle in the autumn of 1975, but how Sammy Nelson broke his leg in a League Cup tie at Highbury in October 1976. I remembered that I had seen Brian play twice for Chelsea – at home to Cardiff City, away to Bristol Rovers – and those games were just before the leg-break. Incidentally, Brian was replaced by Ron Harris in that Arsenal game.

Brian went on to play 130 games for Plymouth Argyle, and also for Vancouver Whitecaps, Crystal Palace, Portsmouth and Reading. While playing in the NASL he played against Pele and George Best. Just imagine that. Brian retired from football in 1983 and he now lives in Brittany. He’s a lovely chap.

The food on offer was unsurprisingly top quality, and I devoured some chicken breasts with assorted vegetables. As I was driving, I kept to “Diet-Cokes” and strong coffees.

Ron arrived with David Lee, Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers and tucked into some food too; “I’m starving.”

At 2.45pm we went outside and took our seats in the front row of the two rows in front of the box.

A box on Boxing Day. The SW6 derby was about to begin.

Back in 1984, Chelsea faced another local foe in a Hammersmith & Fulham derby. On 26 December 1984, we travelled to Loftus Road and eked out a 2-2 draw, with both goals coming from Kerry Dixon, one of them a penalty. I was listening in to score updates at home in Somerset. QPR was always a difficult ticket for me, and I didn’t see my first match at Loftus Road until 1995. Hell, I didn’t see my first game at Craven Cottage until 2004.

I dislike QPR intensely in the 1979 to 1990 period as they often seemed to have the upper-hand over us. I remember a horrible 1-3 defeat at The Bridge on a rainy and dismal Saturday in March 1979, and the couple of Rangers fans sat right in front of me in the East Lower.

The gate at Loftus Road on Boxing Day 1984 was a mighty 26,610. At least half of the spectators would have been Chelsea. We used to take over the place in those days.

Here is a comparison with QPR’s home games against all London teams that season.

Tottenham Hotspur 27,404

Chelsea 26,610

Arsenal 20,189

West Ham 16,085

QPR had seven gates under 12,000 that season, including 11,007 on a Friday night against Liverpool, the European Champions, although that game was live on TV. In those days, TV games were often poorly attended.

In 2024, it was a mild Boxing Day, and the masses had packed out Stamford Bridge to another capacity crowd.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

It was odd to be watching from such a strange angle. I noticed how shallow the West Lower is; a really low rake, a low angle, unlike the old West Stand.

The game began and Chelsea attacked the Shed. Fulham probably enjoyed the best of the first five minutes but we steadily improved as the game developed. Jadon Sancho on the far side was an early bright spark, an early leading light, and he looked keen to impress. Both teams were sounding each other out, with only a few jabs being thrown.

On sixteen minutes, the game changed. Cole Palmer had started the game quietly, but there is always a threat when he is given the ball. Levi Colwill, our most consistent centre-back now, passed the ball to Palmer and he moved gracefully forward. He evaded the presence of one Fulham player and then another, all the while the ball mesmerizingly close to his feet. He advanced further and the coolly and calmly dispatched the ball through a crowd of legs and past Bernd Leno, who used to be a goalkeeper, and into the goal.

I’ll be honest. I could hardly believe what I had seen. I turned around and said “in those situations, he is ice-cold” and I immediately added to Ron and Brian that it was a goal that was so reminiscent of Jimmy Greaves. Greaves would often pass the ball into the net.

Chelsea 1 Fulham 0.

Fantastic.

From Alan in The Sleepy : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in the West Lower : “COMLD.”

Just after, there was some over-elaboration which frustrated us all, with Nicolas Jackson and Palmer combining but a weak effort on goal.

Just after that, some more lovely stuff from Palmer and a curler from outside the box. We were in a great little spell.

But then Fulham got involved in the game. There was a shot that cleared the bar, and then someone called Calvin Bassey had an unfettered and lengthy run up the park before shooting low, but Sanchez was able to save.

Adama Traore was playing well, too, and Alex Iwobi was floating around waiting to strike.

Halfway through the first-half, I mused that it was perhaps a little fortunate that we were 1-0 up.

A lovely free-kick from Cole Palmer was floated into an empty six-yard box where it was met by a dive from Marc Cucarella, but the effort was firstly saved by Leno and then kicked to safety by a teammate.

As half-time approached, I was able to say it was a decent enough game, and we had indeed edged it.

Bloody quiet though.

I turned to Ron.

“Good news. Frome are winning 2-0 at half-time.”

At the break, I fed myself manically.

Cheese and biscuits, a Christmas crumble with apple and mincemeat, some cheesecakes and ice creams, a coffee.

It was the quickest half-time ever.

“That’s what happens when you spend the entire time stuffing your face with food.”

I missed the start of the second-half by a minute or so, the shame.

There was a fine curling effort from Enzo that was tipped over the bar by Leno, then a header by Colwill that was quickly disallowed for offside. Such a shame, because it came from a deliciously whipped-in cross by that man Palmer.

Iwobi went close down at our end, and the game heated up. A few of us in the West Lower tried to get others fired up to join in with some chanting but it was a desperate struggle. The noise had increased, though. It was, no longer, football in a library.

Fulham definitely grew stronger and were especially worrying me on the counter-attack where Traore and others were occasionally gifted space. Cucarella, pushed inside when we had the ball, was often out of position when we lost the ball. Very often it was two white shirts against his solitary blue one.

As the second-half developed, we grew frustrated with our slow build up play. I struggled to see the point in us gathering some momentum, Fulham out of shape, but then slowing the game down to a snail’s pace.

An arthritic snail at that. An arthritic snail with asthma.

Fackinell.

We just didn’t go for the kill in that second-half. And our play became so sloppy, and lacking focus.

We grew tense.

Sanchez made a big save close-in from Andreas Pereira.

On sixty-six minutes, at last a chance, started by a fantastic tackle by Caicedo, and then a strong piercing run by Jackson but saved well by Leno.

“Frome are 3-0 up, Ron.”

An effort from Raul Jiminez was sliced way up into the Shed Upper.

The tension would not go away. Fulham were a decent team. No doubt.

Fulham made a few changes, but we only brought on Christopher Nkunku and his blue balloons in place of Jackson, who had not been at his best.

Our sloppiness continued.

On eighty-two minutes, a cross from the Fulham left by Iwobi was met by a big leap by Timothy Castagne, who headed it back for Harry Wilson to head down and in and past Sanchez. The play was right in line with us and it all looked like an offside was involved, but alas not.

We attacked again, the game opening up, but Fulham always looked better placed to exploit the spaces that were appearing. Six minutes of extra time were signalled.

Death or glory?

Something like that maybe.

Alas, in the very last minute, with us all standing in the box, Fulham attacked us after the ball was given up way too easily. Sasa Lukic burst in front of us and crossed low for Rodrigo Muniz to turn the ball past Sanchez.

I slumped in my seat as the Fulham players celebrated in the far corner.

Bollocks.

For the neutral, a decent game. Fulham had played well, and had deserved a point, but perhaps their victory – hello 1979, the lads would crucify me in the car – was equally of our doing as theirs.

To be honest, though, no grumbles. We had been poor in that second-half.

There was a quick “hello goodbye” with Dave and I gave Jared a hug. I was so sad that his first game at Chelsea had ended in the saddest of ways.

There was time to tell Ron and Glenn that Frome had eventually walloped Plymouth Parkway 5-0 (four wins in a row now, no goals conceded either) before I marched back to the car.

The Fulham fans were cock-a-hoop on the Fulham Road.

“There’s only one team in Fulham…”

I felt like saying “with not one single major trophy since 1879, it ain’t you” but I kept silent.

At Tony Millard’s “The Clarence” on the North End Road, the boozer where many old school Chelsea types, old school hoolies, and those on banning orders reside on match days, the opening bars of “Yes Sir I Can Boogie” by Baccara were playing. It was clearly a very strange night in deepest SW6, but surely things would return to normal very soon.